


Collection of Peter Pan Darkfics

by lexyhamilton (ohheichoumyheichou)



Category: Peter Pan & Related Fandoms, Peter Pan - J. M. Barrie
Genre: Dark, Dark Crack, Drugs, F/M, Fairies, Forced Crossdressing, Gen, M/M, Mental Instability, Mindfuck, Mpreg, Object Penetration, Other, Parasites, Sadism, Serious Injuries, Underage Drinking, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-28
Updated: 2014-09-28
Packaged: 2018-02-19 02:32:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 19
Words: 27,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2371190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohheichoumyheichou/pseuds/lexyhamilton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Collection of fics mostly written in 2003-5.  Mostly dark.  Some very dark.  All pretty weird.<br/>In no particular order, warnings are blanket warnings.  Short summaries and individual pairings/warnings are provided inside each "chapter".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Joyboy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Wendy, Hook/Pan overtones. Rated E.  
> Peter and Wendy are both kept prisoner on Hook's ship, and both end up serving sexually. One of them fares much better than the other.

He moves about quickly, setting the table with obviously practiced skill. His eyes are darting about, but he never dares raise them at either me or Hook. Hook’s leaning back in his chair, twirling his twin cigar holder, the hat taken off already. His coiffure is perfect, all dark auburn locks, but only because I’ve been plucking out the few stray gray ones lately in idle play on the bed. He only has to clear his throat and our server is sent into trembles, dropping utensils all over the table. I wince at the discordant clash of silver against the dishes. 

Peter looks over, already cowering, but Hook only motions him to continue in his task. So much relief he exhibits, and who could blame him? Hook’s strap is only a little less familiar to him than the crew’s hands. I stare at him, trying to exhume the boy who brought me to Neverland from this anxious wreck of a human being. He’s grown so lanky—exceedingly tall but obviously undernourished, spine in a perpetual submissive slouch. His face has changed, grown longer and gaunter, but he would still be lovely to look on if he’d stop wearing that frightened, obsequious smile.

He steps back to the wall, trying to disappear into the shadows. He usually waits on us throughout the whole meal, and Hook is never discomfited in the slightest by his presence, carrying on easy, intimate conversation with me. Yet Hook’s exceptionally bored tonight. I can discern these things nowadays before he begins acting on his whims, and I’d tell Peter to find a way to excuse himself immediately—if only there were any way to communicate that to him without Hook hearing. As it is, I can only sit and watch it unfold.

“No, no, lad, don’t make yourself scarce,” he beckons with his metal. “Sit down and enjoy the meal with us.”

Peter walks over slowly, trying to smile amiably though I can see the cords of his neck tightening and betraying his anxiety. I’m sure Hook can too, and it probably only makes him more hell-bent on pursuing whatever it is that he’s got planned for tonight. 

Peter takes a chair between us—probably afraid to sit too close to his captain and not wishing to be presumptuous with the lady. He hasn’t even brought another set of silverware, so I pray internally that he won’t do something gauche using his hands. No, he’s too timid for that. He only reaches into the breadbasket, afraid to do anything more than nibble even though I’m sure he’s burning with hunger.

I wish Hook wouldn’t do this—play these games, keep me on guard. I haven’t talked to Peter directly in ages, but I still care for him in some notional sense. Though he evidently doesn’t remember much of our past, I still feel visceral pity even when I simply lay eyes on him.

There was a time, only shortly after we’d been captured, when I pleaded with Hook, clutching his clothing, disregarding what harm might come to me, begging him to call off the terrible occupation he had designed for Peter aboard the ship. Little Peter—he seemed even younger than me back then. While I’ve gone untouched by the crew even to this day, he was committed to a most degrading and unhealthy life from the start, far less ready it seemed than I was, who even back then was already at an age where I could not pretend to be wholly unresponsive to the Captain and his body.

Though Peter was so intractable the first few days that not all the crewmembers were willing to try their luck with him, he soon became docile and even pleasant. He quickly became popular with the crew, and forgetting his former glory allowed him to accept his place as if it had been law passed from the heavens themselves. Slowly, we both grew up—our childhoods no longer tethered in place by that magical land, and yet in what different circumstance upon the same vessel! 

The biggest discomfort I suffer lately is tiredness from the lady’s boots I wear, and feeling a bit indisposed every month, and even that Hook will not let me dwell on. On the whole, I’ve been rather fortunate—Hook is easily pleased, and I’ve grown to enjoy him in bed, if not always elsewhere.

Peter, on the other hand, works hard all day having taken over for Smee who retired from life and sea, and services the entire crew between ports, from what I understand. Back in the day, I felt sorry for him, and cried on his behalf, and even sneaked out sometimes to see him and comfort him. Now… now we haven’t spoken in months if not years, though Hook could care less where I go nowadays. So I stare at him now, sitting there chewing on the bread, forlorn and uneasy-- and only now realize just how long it’s been, and how blithe and careless I’ve been living in my own cozy little world.

“Master Pan,” Hook’s voice suddenly invades my thoughts. I’ve noticed that ‘Master Pan’ usually precedes a beating only shortly, and I grow determined to save Peter, if only just this once. Peter’s neck cranes down further than usual, but he cautiously looks over anyway.

“Either grow your beard out and have it nice and trimmed, or go without. I despise when a man walks around looking as though he was alarmed in the middle of the night.”

Peter smiles and quickly nods his head. Just when I believe I’m mistaken and no beating is coming after all, Hook starts again.

“You have hardly looked at the lady seated to your right. Do you find her not as pleasing to the eye as I do?”

Peter looks over, that stupid smile still plastered on his face.

“Well, what do you think?”

“I-I-I think sh-she’s very pretty.” I realize I haven’t heard him speak in quite a while, since he only does so when prompted. His stammering has only gotten worse since he had last opened his mouth in my presence.

“Pretty?” Hook raises his eyebrows, his eyes cold and predatory, belying his amused tone.

“Th-th-that is, I wouldn’t know. I-I-I wouldn’t d-dare j-j-judge…” Peter’s swallowing hard between almost each word. 

What the devil is that smug bastard up to?

“A harlot on the street can be pretty. I’ll wager Wendy is above that level, but I know that’s the best compliment your mind can conjure up, and since she’s so to your liking, perhaps you’d like to try her out yourself.” 

The idea petrifies me. I distinctly remember wanting to be more intimate with Peter when I was young, but the thought seems ludicrous and almost disgusting now. I must own up to the fact that I like Hook’s touch and Hook’s touch only. What is most distasteful about this suggestion is Hook orchestrating and watching us—and no doubt punishing Peter doubly afterwards.

Peter only broadens his smile, failing to voice either protest or acquiescence.

“Well? I’m not going to wait all night for you to find yourself in the mood.”

Peter nods quickly, and stands up, pulling his threadbare trousers down and stepping out of them with a quick, easy motion marred only the tremble of his hands. I am beginning to feel sick, but then he places his hands on the table in front of him, jutting his behind out. For me?

Hook bursts out laughing, and Peter joins him shortly—a quiet, nervous laugh.

“Shut up, you idiotic twit. Don’t laugh when you don’t understand what’s funny.”

“Yes s-sir.” Peter stops on cue and turns back to me.

“Imbecile!” Hook is tearing up from laughing. “Very well, you’d better give my girl the time of her life if you don’t want to be whipped for your stupidity.”

“Oh, please Wendy L-l-lady, please d-do me…”

“I shan’t be able to ‘do’ you,” I whisper, drawing back in my chair without realizing it. How is it possible that he doesn’t know such simple things? I hate to see him like this, trapped into an impasse from which he can only come out with a thorough beating, but I can’t think of anything I can do. There’s something very pathetic about all of this, and I really wish Hook would stop milking the situation, and just tell Peter to put his trousers back on.

But he’s grinning, the bastard. “I take it you’re not amused, Wendy- _Lady_?” How loathsome the phrase sounds coming from Hook’s mouth. He thinks he’s being sardonic and clever, but it’s only because he can’t fathom the sincerity and the awe of this pitiful youth. Every emotion, he has effectively wrung out of him, replacing it with this ludicrous desire to please. If Peter’s an idiot, it’s only Hook’s fault. 

“How do you still live on this ship with that empty head of yours?” Hook’s already out of his chair, removing his belt as he approaches the body still standing exposed, cowering but not daring to try and flee.

“Stop it!” I shout suddenly. I haven’t protested like this in a long time, but somehow seeing just how violated Peter’s spirits and body are, I can’t stand to see any more punishment. “Let him be! He’s done nothing to upset you today!” I suddenly wish I could do more than run between them and flail my arms in protest. Hook shoves me away easily enough. 

“You’ve no reason to hurt him!” I continue from the floor where I’ve been thrown. This injustice suddenly angers me, and I’m _happy_. Happy that my anger can still be aroused like this—that I still care. “Or are you simply too lazy to think up an occasion this time?”

What has come over me? I squeeze my eyes shut when I see Hook’s heavy hand poised to deal me a blow across the face but I don’t move back. I almost want him to hit me. Peter won’t understand, but at least I’ll redeem myself in my own eyes. No slap ever comes, however, and I hear the belt snap against skin, and Peter’s low quiet moan following on its heels.

“It still gnaws at you, does it? The guilt that you have come to terms with his fate just because he has? He’s an idiot alright, but he doesn’t need your help. He makes do with what he’s got, just as you have with your lot.”

“Why do you beat him then?” I ask, only realizing that I’m crying when I hear my voice shake. Hook ignores me and delivers the second blow, calmly directing Peter to stop flinching away to make the strokes fall harder and more precisely.

“Why do I beat you, Peter, she asks.”

“It’s… your… pl-pleasure to?” Peter offers feebly, spastic sobs making him hiccup out the words.

“It could have been. But you have given me very good reason tonight, Peter dear.”

At this Hook leans down to retrieve the trousers, suddenly rending them in two with a quick motion. Several golden coins fly up in all directions and clatter to the floor.

“Whore! On our own ship! Asking to be paid separately for one’s job! That’s the lowest kind of degradation. You thought I wouldn’t hear them jangle as you walked around this table?”

Peter falls to Hook’s feet, trying to explain something, rushing, stumbling, by now utterly unable to carry himself through a single word. Hook launches a boot forward catching the boy in the mouth. I wince, and see blood on the boot as it moves away.

“Go and clean the dishes, trollop. And if I ever catch you with money again, you’ll come out with something permanent to remember the punishment by.”

Peter stands up, blood coursing down his chin from a split lip, but he smiles again in that doltish cowardly way and makes to start cleaning the table, still half-naked.

Hook extends his hand to me and picks me off the floor. I can already see he isn’t about to wait for Peter to leave the room before we set to our nightly escapades. Let him. I’m not about to be embarrassed in front of that tragic figure. Yet instead of loosening the laces of my corset, Hook calls Peter over to tighten them.

“Cherish your two hands, boy. Don’t take them for granted, especially if you have a mind to disobey me again.”

I can’t see Peter’s response, but I feel the tightening becoming painful. It’s not the best time of the month for such confinement, and my insides gurgle in protest. Sometimes I wonder if mother ever did it while it was her time on the rag. I’m sure father would have been too tidy for that. Probably didn’t even refer to it as ‘on the rag.’ Hook, of course, doesn’t mind. He wouldn’t dream of missing days because of it, and I’m not appalled by it either, even if I should be.

“Tighter, stupid boy.” 

I gasp as the air is squeezed from my lungs. The strings in the back are giving out crackling sounds that are beginning to resemble that of the wood in the fireplace. I’m beginning to feel my pulse in places where I shouldn’t.

Hook takes me on the bed, in my dress, evidently unwilling to disclose all my secrets to the poor soul still clearing off the table. Hook is bent on having him see, though, and keeps looking over. I do too, but Peter studiously avoids picking up his gaze at us. It’s ludicrous really, making love for an unwilling spectator, watching the audience to see if he dares watch in return.

Not for long—soon I am lost to sensation and am no longer sure what sounds I’m emitting as I’m impaled over and over in that sweet way. The dull ache is completely gone as my insides shudder with pleasure. Hook ruts more and comes with a gasp through clenched teeth. Ever afraid to voice any more enjoyment than that. I smile up at him, knowing I look the vixen at the moment, and feel very happy and sultry. He slumps forward onto the bed, and I get up to clean us both. Peter’s already gone.

***

I walk out of the cabin lazily, tiredly. Hook doesn’t care what I do after I finish my duty. Such tiredness, but at least that dull ache is gone. I must not have eaten enough at dinner because I’m hungry now, and it gives me the perfect excuse to go visit the kitchen. I don’t rightly know why I want to see Peter again, but I do.

I make my way across the dark corridors blindly, stopping when I finally reach the door of the kitchen. It’s closed and I hear voices inside, so I wait. Peter’s evidently entertaining someone within and I listen closely in spite of myself, remembering all too well how he looked standing half-naked at the table. Does he smile so vacantly at the crew too? He must. 

“If ya ever need me to keep your money for ya, lad, just ask.”

“No need. Th-thanks.”

Sometimes it’s hard to remember that Peter’s voice has changed, though it happened some years ago. The door opens and Mason comes out, eyes widening in surprise for a moment to see me standing to the side, studying my nails as a diversion.

“You tell the Cap’n not to lay it on so hard on our boy, Ms. Darling.”

Such deference. My supposed influence on Hook is little more than a myth, but the crew likes their beliefs. The poor ship never had a figurehead, and I seem to have filled in that niche nicely with my legendary reputation. It wouldn’t do to deign to answer vocally, and I just give a small nod before going in.

Peter’s body tenses, neck immediately falls forward in an attempt to be shorter in stature than his captain’s mistress.

“I d-d-didn’t ask for m-money-- he just… just gave it to me.” He takes the coin out of his pocket and flings it on the table as if touching it taints him. I am his enemy, it seems. 

“You really don’t need to fear me,” I say. “You must not remember it very well, but we were friends long ago.” I take out the rest of the coins that Hook had scattered on the floor and I had gathered on the sly just now, but Peter refuses to take them, refuses to do anything but stare at me in disbelief.

“I… I don’t ask for money. They pay me… just p-pay me for s-s-special… special…” He can’t find the words, or perhaps just can’t pronounce them in his agitation, and closes his mouth in surrender. He’s moved to the farthest corner of the room from me, as ill at ease as I’ve ever seen him.

“Fine, don’t take the money for nothing. I’ll pay you for a second dinner. I didn’t eat enough before, so if you could make me something, that would be lovely.”

He looks relieved to be ordered to task, and quickly begins scrambling eggs after he gets my approval. He’s gotten better at cooking since he began, by now probably better than I could manage. 

I get closer and wrap my arms around his waist, slipping the coins into some pocket of his. His body stiffens and he begins to tremble. It feels good suddenly. He’s petrified with fear, ready to do anything I would command him. I turn him towards me—his long lean body moving as if lacking a will of its own—and press my lips to his. He’s tall and even my high heels don’t suffice. I’m hanging on his neck, pulling his face into mine, feet hardly touching the floor. He’s about as passionate as a ragdoll, eyes glued to the door expecting intrusion at any moment. He’s afraid he’s doing something he shouldn’t be, and at the same time dares not refuse me. I let go. The exhilaration is gone. I don’t know what the crew sees in him. He stares down at me, no desire in his eyes. His thoughts are all far away, worrying whether he’s violating rules. And then that sheepish smile starts to spread, the kind that appears when he’s afraid and doesn’t know what he should be doing. I feel slightly nauseous.

The eggs have started to burn while I was distracting him, and he quickly ushers them off the pan with a greasy old wooden utensil. Apology and fear color his words as he gives it to me on a plate: “I can… I can make another, if you l-like…”

I don’t answer and eat the burned food quickly, washing it down with a glass of rum that he offers me so helpfully. Yes, Hook has produced a wonderful little jack of all trades. Keeps the crew very happy.

“What are you saving for, Peter?”

He looks cornered and hopeful that he won’t have to answer, but I don’t let my gaze wander off of him as he begins to move about the kitchen, pretending to be very busy cleaning up. He should know better than not to answer. Who knows, but I might go and complain to Hook, in his confused little mind.

“N-n-not for anything in particular. I don’t ever get per-permission to go on shore, so…”

He trails off without a mind to continue. Lovely answer. About as clear as his thinking, apparently.

“You’re popular with the crew, aren’t you… That’s good.”

He turns back to look at me, trying to see if this is some sort of trap, but finally nods in his cautious way, shrugging and smiling again. I realize what bothers me about the smile now. His eyes never smile with his mouth.

The pain in my stomach is returning slowly, and I tell him that it’s probably time for me to go back to the cabin and join Hook in bed, but suddenly he springs a question on me. I’ve somehow managed to make him feel a bit bolder after all.

“You… you know, you should tell him… tell the Captain that he sh-should be gentler. With you, I mean.”

“Oh?” I feel too tired to be too surprised at his sudden meddling. “Did it look rough?”

“I… I just find… b-blood on the sheets… wh-when I do the laundry, that is…”

I smile and tell him not to worry about it, and he nods dumbly, staring at me as at some sorceress—afraid again, sure he has said the wrong thing. I make my way back using my hands on the walls as guides and change my undergarments as quietly as I can, because Hook is already asleep, judging by his soft breathing. I climb in by his side, guilt over Peter receding as I nestle myself against the man’s body. As long as the youth’s happy with his lot in life, I’ll be happy with mine.

“Been down to the kitchen, have you?”

My heart jumps to my throat, and I wait for my voice to be stable before answering truthfully. He can play jealous all he wants, but I know he isn’t.

“You find him pleasing, do you?”

Does he think he can trap me? “You’re the one who keeps him around, so don’t lay the blame on me.” I run my hands over his body, and know he’s smiling, even if I can’t exactly see him in the dim light.

“This crew of mine would mutiny, I fear, if I ever got rid of him.” He reaches down and pulls down the thick undergarments I use during this week before I straddle him. There’ll be more blood for Peter to worry about soon, I suppose. I resolve to start stealing money from that desk and bringing it down to the kitchen. Whatever his plans are, he deserves some happiness like I'm receiving.


	2. In Vino Veritas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, rated M.  
> Peter tries to negotiate his way out of imprisonment on Hook's ship.

It's become a ritual, this little daily visit I pay my prisoner. He's had the gratingly cheerful recalcitrance seep out of him days ago and by now he just glares at me, preciously forlorn. The chain that binds him to the wall is of a generous length and allows him to lie down comfortably, but I suppose he's spoiled on absolute freedom for so many years that it's torturous. I come in, as per my daily ritual, and see his face only after my eyes adjust to the shocking darkness of the hold. He's not even angry anymore, just ever so sad.

"Will today be the day?" I ask.

He looks at his wrist. There is a thick angry scar there by now, evidence of my generosity and his cowardice.

"I'll lop it off nice and quick this time if you don't cry out like a sissy girl as soon as I break skin."

"And then I'm free to go?" he verifies. He's asked every time, and I have assured him without fail. I nod and smile when I see the tension inside slightly distort his features. I'm a man of my word. I would let him go, much as it would pain me, if he truly agreed to part with his right hand. A suitable revenge, I felt at the time of his capture, and much more tasteful than killing a boy who had after all thought of our battles as nothing more than games.

"It just hurts so much..." he whispers. It's the first admission of fear I've had from him in these several days. "Will it hurt afterwards too?"

"Oh very much. The sharp pain will give place to a dull ache, and finally just occasional disturbances having to do with the weather or your mood. The progression may take a few years, but what's that to an eternal boy like you?"

He bites his lower lip but doesn't cry. It annoyed me at first, his stoicism, and I was tempted to break him down without provocation. Now I see that it's valuable-- the very definition of his being, the identity of my enemy. I'm not sure if I want to see him break down, and the decision remains his own.

"Smee told me..." he trails off, picking up his gaze towards me. "He told me that drinking rum would make it hurt less..."

"Are you asking for an easier way out than I've already provided?"

He doesn't reply, knowing whatever answer he gives will be mocked.

"That's just fine. I'll bring you down some rum tonight and afterwards we can sever this little tie that's grown between us."

***

He drinks the rum like a child, lifting the bottle to his lips with both hands, grimacing after each swig. A flush rises to his cheeks, but his mood hardly improves. In fact, he seems closer to crying than at any other time.

I take it from him and help myself to the rest. He watches me somberly, though I see him having trouble keeping balance, even just sitting on the floor. His body inadvertently shrinks away when I unsheathe my sword. I wish I had the second hand to hold his matchstick of an arm before bringing the sword down, but one must make do. I am unsure with my blade again, however, as if hesitating to really grant the freedom I promise, and he cries out. Blood is dripping thick to the floor, but I did not slice through the bone. 

He cries unabashedly this time, tears given free reign by tipsiness, and I realize I feel disappointment. Disappointment that I've broken him even before I could break the appendage. The rum is doing strange things in my head, and I kneel beside him almost without willing it or knowing why, my body moving on instinct. I lick up the blood dripping and running down the smooth skin of his arm, then proceed to do something I had hitherto done only with women, eons ago it seems. He doesn't resist, and keeps crying even as I kiss him, hiccuping sobs into my own mouth.

I press myself against him every which way I can, finally fucking him between the thighs, even as he continues to weep, though obeying my command to squeeze admirably.

Bliss-- downright heavenly bliss if it weren't for the heavy feeling of guilt and disgust that I feel as I walk up the steps, not daring to look back at him to see if he is trying to wipe away the seed I dirtied him with.

***

"Good morning," I say with my usual mock-sweetness, trying to appear nonchalant even as images from the previous night's doings flood my mind on seeing him again. I should have drunk more to knock out disturbing memories, or perhaps less-- to have prevented that obscene act in the first place. In any case, I refuse to feel discomfited, and hope he feels guilty enough for the both of us.

Indeed, he doesn't meet my gaze, and his posture this morning tells me he remembers what happened perhaps even in more detail than I do.

"It's no use," he suddenly proclaims, quietly but with an air of conviction. "You don't have to come down here every day. I'm never going to be able to go through with it."

Sarcasm suddenly deserts me, and I am rendered dumb. Broken, so soon, practically in half. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be, and now I regret having been dramatic enough to really throw the manacle key out to sea after telling him I would. Now the wall would have to be ruined.

I approach and hack off the wood to which he is attached fairly easily. He stares and doesn't budge, as if expecting me to do something else. Slowly he rises to his feet, and walks towards the door, awkwardly, still facing me, hesitating to the last before finally taking to the air and speeding away from the ship.

The crew is murmuring around me as I watch him distance himself, the cumbersome remnant of his captivity still around his wrist, swinging to and fro in the wind. He'll probably cast it off sooner or later, somehow, just as he does everything else. It is my lot in this world to remain permanently scarred, and permanently obsessed, one way or another.


	3. Names for Feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, rated M.  
> Peter is underage and under-vocabularized. Mostly just a sad!fic.

Peter had never been aware of the beating sound before his capture. It must have beat before as well, he rationalized, but he had been so caught up in the moment that he could easily overlook it. 

Now the thumping in his chest is a constant companion. Though constant is perhaps the wrong word. When Hook enters the room, it will skip a beat, then return louder, faster-- so loud that he’s sure the Captain must hear it too (how could he not?) and it doesn’t still even after he’s left alone, but continues for a long time, almost painfully frantic, not letting him fall asleep though it’s dark in the hold and he knows he will not be visited again until morning.

Though it dwells in his chest, it visits other parts of his body as well. When Hook has Smee tighten the ropes around his wrists, Peter begins feeling it in his hands, and it’s uncomfortable and makes him feel downright ill when he senses that rhythm in his hands all night.

He feels it deep down in his body when Hook has Tormented him particularly roughly and made him abandon all dignity and sob in time with the man’s gasps of pleasure. Hook won’t tell him what it’s called, what they do, but every such visit he asks, almost politely, whether Peter is ready for some Torment. ‘Torment’ it is then. Peter feels it throbbing even in the morning when he wakes, sometimes.

One day Peter finally asks Hook what ‘it’ is, because though the man despises him and enjoys Torment, Peter has already noticed he enjoys explaining almost as much. Hook laughs, but Peter guessed that he would and it doesn’t faze him. He just wants to know. The Captain calls it Fear. Peter’s heard the name before and now he finally knows what it is. The knowledge is helpful, somehow, and even the Torment that follows doesn’t seem so terrible. Not when he can put a name to the feeling Torment produces in him.

Days pass. Peter’s Fear beats steady and slow, mostly, and he’s beginning to notice another peculiar feeling arising. It’s painful, like all feelings seem to be, one way or another, and it’s a tension, slow but building. It swells when he thinks of returning home and then recalls that he cannot. It mixes with the pulse of Fear into a cacophony of monotone and sharp, crisp thumps.

The Captain changes. He lingers and watches Peter more often after Torment, so long that Fear sometimes dies down even before he leaves the hold. One day he calls Smee in, and Smee… with his mouth… just wraps it around…

Fear returns, pumping hard-he can feel it in the part that Smee is sucking-Smee must feel it too, it’s so loud. It’s not unpleasant, however. He wants to feel more and more Fear, and he does, until suddenly Fear stops down there and he feels incredibly satisfied.

 _It’s my favorite kind of Fear_ , Peter’s cloudy mind decides, but he is all too aware that it will be time for another kind of Fear soon, when he sees Hook sending Smee out and readies himself for Torment. Peter lies passive, resigned to letting whatever feelings may come just sweep over him. Perhaps he’ll ask Hook what that new tension is called after they finish today.


	4. A Boy of Parts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan overtones, but mostly just Gen violence. Rated E for violence and sexual content.  
> Hook killed Peter, and he somewhat regrets it.

Neverland had been very still since it happened—blessedly peaceful at first, monotonous by now. He was glad that he had left himself keepsakes by which he might remember. It was with a naturalist’s loving eye that he ran over his treasures. They served as a rosary of sorts, and Hook had taken to recounting Peter’s last moments to himself almost every day. For even Hook’s memory sometimes betrayed him as time raced on without bound. And, unlike the boy, Hook could only find real pleasure in his memories.

He reached into the box, pulling out longish, straight hair. It was lightening with age, and growing less silky, but Hook rubbed it between his fingers before letting it drop down again. Funny, how the smell of blood and sweat had dissipated over time. It smelt as much of the forest as the moment Pan had been caught.

_Hook had meant to dispatch the boy himself in an appropriately gruesome and dramatic manner, but when the tiny frame was finally bound, he found he could not touch him. His men obliged. They had centuries of spite built up, and Peter would suffer for it all—the fatigue from searching aimlessly in the sweltering jungles, the tedium of living on a ship always at harbor, and the constant fear of Hook’s distemper._

Funny, how serene he had grown after being deprived of his nemesis. Sedated, almost.

_It began with very light physical violence, and just this, coupled with some cruel words, took away the boy's power of flight. How incredibly easy it had been to infuse fear into him, now that he was secured to their earthbound level and justice! One of them had the idea to use Peter ignominiously before he was too mangled. They all took turns, slamming the boy against seemingly every bit of wall, mast, and railing available to them. Peter’s stoic silence broke down, and the shrieking only took pause when a particularly abrupt launch against the railing sent vomit shooting out. Hook watched all this from a distance, the benefit of the upper deck affording him a good view of the proceedings. The boy bled small droplets all over the deck as he was pushed to and fro, and they did so much damage that he finally soiled himself. Prematurely, Hook remembered with distaste. It was like dirty water spilling out._

Hook ran his hand over the twenty baby teeth-- all lacquered, all lined in a row attached to a board. How incongruous it seemed that these were the same that had gleamed at him from within Peter’s impish grin once. They were nothing more than a crocodilian jaw now, arranged in size from incisor to molar.

_When the men grew tired of their fun, they grew violent. The first was a strong punch against the face. The cheekbone collapsed, Peter fell to hands and knees, drooling blood and teeth. Even from the upper deck, Hook could see tiny whites falling into the crimson puddle. They kicked him furiously, and he bawled, his entire body shaking with the pain. They had gathered in such a close group around him that Hook could hardly hope to distinguish anything. The crying stopped, the men parted. Someone must have broken the thin spine down near the waist. The boy began to slowly crawl away as soon as the blows ended, his lower half an inert encumbrance now, trailing behind him. It was amazing—the optimistic hope for survival at that hour, Hook mused. He sensed the end coming and descended down the stairs._

Hook took the small jar of alcohol and shook it up until the two preserved eyeballs inside more or less faced him. They had been much prettier, framed by the almond cut of Pan’s eyelids and the long lashes, but those could not be rescued intact. The alcohol had been distilled expressly for the purpose, in a long and painful process. But Hook had been hellbent in his task.

_Those eyes had not left the level of the floor since the beating, but did stare at the newly arrived boots. The boy slightly changed direction to head towards them. Hook remained impassive, standing in the same place. A pirate with a sense of humor took his cutlass and severed off Peter’s lower half in the blink of an eye. Blood spilled onto the deck, but the boy hardly flinched, feeling nothing down there apparently, and still intent on reaching his destination. Hook watched in concealed amazement, hoping the boy would make it, but unwilling to come even a step closer. The men were quiet for only a moment, taking up the boy’s lower half and jeering about their plans for it._

Hook came to his favorite item, the pair of stuffed hands. He had been disappointed that the men had stepped on and crushed many of the thin bones in both of them, but the remedy turned out to be simple. There they lay, small and perfect, even the nails intact. It was hard to believe most of the bones had been replaced and that the flesh was nothing but sawdust. Smee had done good work. 

_The hands finally reached the boots, but the boy could not use them, injured as they were, to pull himself up. He had been crawling forward using his elbows. He was at last close enough to clasp his arms around the leg, rising up like a pillar before him. Hook looked down in disbelief at the trail of blood and innards that lay in the wake of the stump of his body. The head slumped forward, but Hook quickly turned him to face the sky. Still conscious eyes stared into Hook’s, finally despaired in the realization that these were indeed the final moments. Only blood colored the now-pale lips which moved, pronouncing nothing more coherent than a string of ‘mama,’ but when Hook leaned down, the hands flew up in a desperate last effort, touching the man’s rough cheeks before falling back, lifeless, to the deck._

_The crew had already begun to rape the lower half—highly amused at seeing some of the more endowed of them come clean through. It was around dusk that Hook decided he had to preserve as much as possible of his fallen archenemy. He approached the task with a methodical air, stripping down the boy’s upper half to its most precious components. He had no interest in internal organs—only what had been visible and beautiful. There was hardly anything left of the lower half when Hook finally found it later in the evening-- rent into two and mangled beyond easy recognition by the boorish oafs. Smee helped tremendously in that search, miraculously recovering all the teeth that had been knocked out and scattered by the commotion._

Hook could not resist, and unscrewed the metal appendage. The small right hand had a metal fastening just below the wrist, and the man screwed it in. It was ridiculous, how unmatched it was compared to the other. It was useless in its immobility. But utility was hardly the objective. Hook took it up, gently caressing his own face with the smooth skin, running the slender fingers through his hair, over his lips, across the bit of chest exposed by his loose shirt, and shuddering in pleasure unknown to him while the boy had lived. The green irises were still fixed on him, as the globes slowly drifted past each other in the luminescent fluid.


	5. Breach of Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan overtones, rated E for weird, explicit content.  
> Hook happens upon Peter Pan being very ill in the woods. He never would have guessed the cause of the illness.

"Please just let me go,” Peter moaned, sweat pouring down his face.

“You’re in no shape to go anywhere,” Hook said, laying his heavy hand on the boy’s stomach. Peter curled up, trying to escape the man’s touch.

“I’m going to make a mess,” he whispered brokenly, seized with violent shaking.

“For the last time-- what in the bloody hell is happening to you?” 

Peter did not answer, only whimpering and pressing himself further into the corner. Hook spat, and left the cabin cursing. He did not take care to even restrain Peter, as the boy only seemed to get weaker and less mobile as time went on. He had found him quite by accident, noticing footprints on the wet forest soil as he traversed Neverland with his men, grown bored as he always did during Pan's occasionally prolonged absences. He was in search of Indians or Lost Boys. Indeed, when he first discerned the trembling form deep inside the narrow burrow the tracks had led to, he mistook the eternal boy for a lowly member of his ragtag band.

They extracted him kicking, protesting, and crying to be left where he was. His breathing came in pained gasps. They'd stripped him in the forest, searching for wounds, for surely Peter Pan would crawl into such a hole to shake and cry only if he were healing or dying. No signs were visible however, though any touch to his stomach prompted anguished wailing. Hook conveyed this unexpected prisoner of war back to the ship-- determined to counteract what appeared to be internal injuries or at least be witness to his enemy's demise. It was by his hand that Pan was destined to die, Hook had told himself many times, grinding his teeth, while Smee applied hot compresses to the boy's stomach and forehead.

Hook stopped in his tracks as he heard a loud sob from his cabin. He could not miss these moments if they were to be Pan's last. He opened the door to a strange sight indeed. Peter was propping his back against the walls of the corner, half sitting up, knees bent and thighs spread. A small, wet creature had appeared… it could not be. Hook watched with disbelief the emergence of a second such creature from Peter's body. 

"They're fairies," Hook murmured finally.

Peter avoided looking Hook in the eyes, cheeks flushing with exertion and humiliation. Hook used a handkerchief to clear the newborn fairies from his bedspread. They were still a tad crumpled and covered with mucus. Hook looked frantically about the room before spotting the small wash basin. He threw the contents out of the open window, and placed the fairies into it.

The remainder of the evening was spent in a peculiar fashion. The boy’s agonized groans were muffled into Hook’s coat, as the man held him close to his body. Peter was on his lap, perched over the basin, now held between Hook’s thighs-- expelling newborn fairies into it one by one. As soon as the last one made its exit and a whole mass of clear slop dribbled out of him, Peter sighed relief, eyelids falling of themselves after all the pain and sleepless nights. The boy dozed off in the arms of his former enemy before he could be cleaned or laid into bed.

Peter awoke in a silken nightdress, lying between a wall and the captain. The man promptly awoke when the boy began to clamber over him to get out of bed.

“Up and about this morning, I see.” Hook smiled as Peter stood, surveying the cabin in search of his clothes.

“Smee has them in the wash. They had soil and sweat on them. I thought you might care to spend some more time here recuperating anyway.”

Peter looked back at the man and finally smiled.

“All right, I’ll stay. I’m still too weak to fly now anyway.” The boy walked over and sat down at the table. “Do you have anything to eat on this ship?”

"I'm sure we can arrange something or other." The man smirked, getting out of bed and immediately reaching to assemble his hook apparatus. Peter watched him with a fascination strangely uncolored by fear.

***

It was only after a filling breakfast that Peter finally related the details and causes of his ordeal as a desultory tale that Hook had some difficulty in piecing together into order. The fairies of Neverland apparently reproduced only parasitically, developing while slowly travelling through the human gut for three days. Peter Pan had been surrogate parent of choice ever since his arrival, and though his memory of those early days was patchy, he remembered bartering the occasional discomfort of these services for eternal youth. It was also this activity which sustained his fairy dust-independent flight, being the only inhabitant of Neverland suffused with the substance from the inside. These effects would slowly fade if he did not continue in this fashion, as far as Peter could remember.

“So how often is it that you do this?” Hook asked, pleased with how open the child was being with him. 

“It used to be many days in between. I never bothered to count how many. Tinker Bell would just ask me to come to one of their nightly orgies, and they’d mate right in my mouth, but...” Peter looked down at his hands nervously.

“But...?” Hook turned his head as if to hear more easily, eyebrows upraised expectantly. He could discern the boy’s face coloring slightly out of the corner of his eye.

“But an awful lot of fairies die now, because hardly anyone believes in them anymore. And I’m supposed to compensate. They began asking me more and more often and sometimes I’d say no. Because it hurts-- it hurts so much! And I’m always so miserable and cold and lonely for those three days. Lonely, because I’ve never told anyone else before...” Huge tears began rolling down his cheeks, and he suddenly sought solace in Hook’s arms. The man grinned, gently lifting the lanky frame onto his knees, and stroking the hair of the tragic boy.

“They sneak up on me if I dare fall asleep on the ground, and I think even Tink’s been helping them trick me into eating that mating dust...” Peter’s speech was broken up with sobs now, while Hook lavished kisses on his forehead.

A close friend Hook had suddenly become, Peter mused, attempting to rub away his tears with the back of his hand. Closer than the Indians he dared not stay with during the ordeal that shamed him without knowing exactly why. Closer than his faithful band of Lost Boys who would not have judged him, but would have stared wide-eyed and terrified if they ever saw what he went through. Closer even than Wendy, whom he had tried to think about at every ordeal since first seeing her at the nursery window. She was his unwitting muse as he lay in that secret burrow in tears-- hoping that the forest sounds would drown out the occasional anguished howls he’d let forth when a fairy refused to come out the easy way. Even beautiful Wendy would chastise and question him about his absences. But here, in the most unlikely of all places, he’d found someone who not only commiserated, but saw him through his time of torment.

“I’ll come here every time,” Peter whispered, the tears having gone now, though hiccuped sobs still occasionally launched his torso forwards into Hook’s warm, tobacco-reeking body. No answer came.

“Have you released the fairies yet?” Peter suddenly remembered. “Their wings dry up after a few hours and they’re ready to fly away after that.”

“I have not,” Hook said, pulling the boy’s anxious head back to his chest.

“Please do.” Peter attempted to pull away, but Hook’s arms kept him close. “Or they’ll make me do it again very soon.”

“My little Peter Pan... raped by fairies.” Hook laughed. 

The boy squirmed, growing a bit uneasy at Hook’s tone. “Really-- where are they?”

Hook called to Smee to bring in the jar of fairies.

"You shouldn't keep them in a jar. They might all start dying."

"Don't worry yourself, Pan," Hook murmured, nipping at his ear, causing the boy only further discomfort. He would leave as soon as they released the fairies, he decided.

Smee brought in a small jar of a nondescript, dull-colored powder. Hook was prepared for, and suppressed the sudden jerk out of his arms.

"My pretty, long-suffering boy… the discovery that you can produce dozens of fairies a night-- easily gatherable fairies, I should say-- has made me happy beyond your imagination. For, you see, while it's quite true that children can use fairies and happy thoughts to fly, we adults must make do with happy thoughts induced by smoking the little buggers."

Hook's arms held Peter put, despite the boy's rather violent attempts to free himself.

"Tonight I'll let you smell burnt fairy. It makes such pretty pictures in your head. You grind them up after they dry, and stuff them in a pipe... then smoke away. It was the highest of delicacies, because we could never catch more than one or two in weeks. But thanks to you…" Hook finished his sentence with a hickey on the boy's neck, where he felt the pulse run frantic with distress.

Peter could barely make out Hook's face through his tears. "You killed _all_ of them?" He was not particularly fond of the creatures himself, besides Tinker Bell. But to have the fruits of his labor and agony so callously destroyed was painful-- especially when he considered having to repeat the ordeal so soon. He would have to find a different place to stay this time, too, because Hook seemed likely take it into this head to revisit him.

"Not all, my dear boy. I am a gentleman, but I'm not ashamed of enterprise. I have kept a few pairs." Peter's questioning expression was too delicious to bear. "To provide for future generations, of course."

***

Peter felt sleep creeping on him as the contractions temporarily let up, but he already knew this was only the quiet before the storm. He had it perfectly rehearsed and memorized by now… now after Hell knew how many infestations Hook had induced in him. Peter, for one, had lost all count. Hook abused his body almost as much as the fairy essence that he smoked every evening. He had taken to forcing dozens of matings at a time, so that each batch of fairies came to nearly thousands. The ordeal was now more painful, and much longer.

The blinding pain came again, and he bent his knees until his fettered ankles could go no further. Hook chained him by three limbs, though there was not a smidgen of hope at this moment that Peter could stand up, let alone fly away. It was about to begin, he knew. His free hand stuffed a well-worn rag into his mouth and lightly caressed his stomach-- stretched to frightening proportions, teeming with fairies to be born, only to be ground up by his captors for mind-bending pleasures.

Peter shuddered as half a dozen fairies spilled out of him at once, onto the towel laid out to buffer him from the cold wood of the kitchen floor. Or, most likely, to keep the floor clean from all the mucus, Peter thought dejectedly, opening his eyes as the contraction ceased. He watched these first arrivals already begin to crawl about, wings still completely folded and glistening wet in the dim light of the lone candle on the high surface of the table. He cursed them, cursed the entire species that had chosen him to be a conditional prince of this island, only to end like this-- an animal to be milked for its products.

Hook walked into the ship's kitchen just as a new wave of pain began. He very rarely visited Peter, especially when the latter was in condition. The boy recognized the sickly sweet smoke lacing the usual tobacco, and the resultant idiotic grin plastered on the captain's otherwise sedate expression. Hook crouched down, his long hair swaying, a few ringlets brushing past Peter's face. His hand came down painfully heavy against Peter's bloated stomach.

"Only a little more, Pan. And then I'll let you rest for a couple of days."

Peter did nothing but groan in reply, several more fairies leaving his body, and salty sweat stinging his eyes as he panted against the rag. A few whacks across the towel, and all who had been born lay crushed by the swatter Hook had taken up from the floor. Peter felt the heated sting of it across his cheek next.

"You're supposed to dispatch them yourself if Smee's not around," Hook bellowed, suddenly angry as part of his usual mood swings-- his words slightly slurred and the forget-me-not blues clouded over. They were red, but only with the aftereffects of the drugs. Peter often wished it were a sign that he was about to be clawed to death. "The more escape, the sooner we'll have to knock you up again."

The man sauntered out, Peter clenching the swatter in his unfettered hand as yet another contraction threatened to engulf him. Hot tears scalded the cheeks already burning with shame, and he struck at the frail, newly emerged creatures between his thighs with unparalleled fury.


	6. Never Eat a Neverbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan overtones, rated M for weird themes.  
> Peter is treated very hospitably for a prisoner on Hook's ship...

"Use the napkin, for heaven's sake." Hook was irritated with Peter again, and the boy knew it was best not to irritate the pirate. The latter was rather fond of spanking Peter, sometimes without reason, but especially when he did something stupidly childish like wipe his mouth on the back of his hand. The boy hurried to bury his pudgy lips into the silk fabric. 

His captivity on Hook's ship had been remarkably pleasant. The captain kept him in his own quarters, which were far superior to the bed of leaves he slept on inside the tree, and left him to his own devices between the four daily meals in his waking hours. The meals were sumptuous-- nothing like the sparse fare that Wendy ineptly prepared. Peter learned the taste of bread, of meat, and of honey-- the pirates being far more ambitious in their habits of procuring food. Despite his previous claims to the contrary [ch 7, hehe], Peter Pan found that he was quite fond of stodging just to feel stodgy when the food was as good as that served on the captain's table. 

Peter stretched, the chains attaching his manacles to the chair's handles jangling stridently. The boy eyed the remaining bits of breaded Neverbird meat on his plate before throwing a glance at Hook. The man rarely ate along with Peter, usually content to watch him the entire time. The harmless pervert, Peter had to smile to himself. Captivity was so pleasant that its two weeks' duration flew by almost imperceptibly. Peter had no real intentions of leaving in the near future. 

Smee entered the cabin as Peter was finishing up everything on his plate, indecorously picking up crumbs with his dampened fingertips and licking them clean. 

"Send the men on another hunt, Smee," Hook said, sipping his wine, his eyes still fixed on Peter's content face. The boy pretended not to notice the gaze and patted his stomach, not only distended by its contents but by now also covered with a thin layer of flab. This was a complete novelty for Peter, and it amused him greatly when his flesh jiggled if he poked himself just right. He knew Hook appreciated the show. 

"But, Cap'n, there aren't any more of 'em left..." 

"There are plenty of Neverbirds," Peter scoffed knowingly. "You people just don't know where to look." Hook completely ignored Peter and told Smee to get out of the cabin. Peter pouted. He had grown quite fond of Neverbird meat, which was served at every meal as the main course, and it was a shame that he would have to do without for a few days. 

Hook suddenly walked over to Peter's seat and crouched down to his eye level. "My, my, my, how plump we're getting. We've been making a little pig of ourselves, haven't we?" 

Peter shrugged. "I take what's given to me." 

"Indeed." Hook smiled. "Pray tell, Peter, hypothetically speaking, what would you think of a man who eats his fellow man?" 

The boy grimaced. "I'd think he was a nasty, murdering rogue who deserves a swift death," he said, realizing with a measure of horror the obvious drift of Hook's thoughts only after finishing his sentence. 

"You shouldn't condemn people so hastily," Hook said, pinching one of the tiny precursors of love handles that had appeared recently above Peter's hips. The boy began to regret his slight pudginess when he saw the hungry look in Hook's eye. His heart was racing. Hook was a fiend after all, and a terrifying one at that. The overly nice treatment was only a ploy to have juicy meat later... 

"Stop! Stop it! Don't touch me!" Peter hastily cried out when he felt the cold of the hook caress his full belly. "If you want to kill me, just do it now, and throw me overboard. Don't bloody _eat_ me!" 

Hook was taken aback. 

"No one is planning to kill you, lad, let alone eat you, so settle down." Then a sick smile crept onto Hook's lips. "In fact, it is I who should be slightly worried about your apparent lack of inhibitions." 

"...What?" was all Peter could utter in response, dumbfounded and frightened as he still was. 

"To think that you've grown so rosy-cheeked and cherubic on a diet of your own comrades!" Hook's expression was full of theatrical melancholy, while Peter's proceeded to contort into something quite grotesque as the idea registered itself in his mind. The hunts had not been for Neverbirds but his Lost Boys, now left vulnerable and easy to catch without his supervision. The tender, pink meat he had just devoured-- and had been devouring-- with such relish was human. And his pleasure at mindlessly stuffing himself was of the most horrible variety. 

"This latest dish was Wendy, if I recall correctly," Hook reckoned with mock concentration. "She was a sweet little miss in life, and I can only hope she did not disappoint in this respect as she slid down your greedy gullet." 

Peter was beyond tears. He threw himself to the edge of his seat, and keeled over-- trembling, vomiting up the heinous contents of his stomach onto the lacquered wooden floor. 

"I suppose we'll have to get you used to something else, if we're going to maintain such a nice, ample little bottom," Hook said, standing over the boy disinterestedly, his hands itching at the thought of the wonderful spanking ahead of them that evening. "Unless you'd prefer moving on to the Indians?"


	7. Doppelganger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan overtones, rated PG.  
> Peter's shadow is his Id.

Battling with Pan was beginning to be not only utterly humiliating, but also very predicable. Hook swung his sword, half-heartedly, and missed for the umpteenth time. He knew he would miss, coming to expect it after eons of playing the cat and mouse game where the conclusion seemed forgone. He suspected that Peter set the rules of their game, though he would never admit so to himself aloud. His life, in short, was a doomed enterprise by definition.

Yet this particular miss was different. Though Pan's small, pert body was in the air and out of reach before anyone could blink, there had been a ripping sound. Not a scratch on the lad, of course, but something strange lay crumpled on the deck below him-- something dark and impossibly flimsy, and Hook could only guess it had been something important by the expression on the boy's face.

The strange form sat up on the floor-- disoriented, but only for a moment. It sprang up with a lightness Pan himself could envy, and flew several rounds across the ship. It was reveling in its freedom, Hook gathered, once he overcame his bewilderment at what had happened.

"Look at what you've done!" Peter groaned. "You never fight fairly. Who strips shadows off of their opponent?"

Hook said nothing, and merely followed the shadow with his eyes. It didn't so much fly as slide against surfaces, and it dared not escape the boundaries of the ship. If only Pan himself were as tractable, Hook thought wistfully.

The dark, translucent silhouette suddenly stopped and began drawing closer to Hook, drifting eerily along the deck of the ship. Hook drew his sword, unsure whether it could do any real damage to him, or he to it.

"Don't rip my shadow!" yelled Pan, deliciously nervous. This bolstered Hook's confidence only a little, because the shape seemed to grow more sinister as it approached. Its fingers seemed to stretch out longer as they reached for Hook's boots. Quickly the shadow leapt up against the man's body, but did nothing more harmful than make strange motions.

The entire crew stood aghast, slowly realizing that Peter Pan's shadow was lavishing kisses and putting itself into lascivious positions around Hook's torso-- to the extent that a flat, ethereal body could do so. Hook chuckled as he felt the strange sensation against him. He could make out legs circling around his waist and mouth eagerly pressing itself against his lips. He finally gazed up at Pan, who was hovering uncertainly above them, growing paler with each new ministration made by his doppelganger.

"Stop it!" the boy finally stuttered out, trying to decide whom he was addressing. "Don't let it do that!"

Hook grinned. "I can hardly pry this thing off of myself. Come and claim it, if you like." In truth, he enjoyed this rare contact immensely. Almost as much as seeing Peter so agitated and embarrassed.

The boy floated down to the deck, forgetting all sense of danger. Indeed the crew dared not approach him as he came to disengage his most intrinsic possession from his enemy. The shadow protested as much as it could, wrapping every limb around the captain, except when it would take the opportunity to give Peter a blithe smack on the head.

The boy finally gave up his efforts and stamped his foot before sitting down in protest.

"I'm not leaving without my shadow!" He pouted, showing off moist lips under even moister eyes.

"Glad to offer you my hospitality, then, lad," Hook said, walking over to the boy and picking him back up to his feet easily enough with a grip on the hair. Peter realized all too late that he had played the game wrong, and stared at the shadow in Hook's arms with hate as the man transported them both down the stairs to his cabin.

The shadow jumped off Hook and bounded about the cabin briefly, eager to explore it, before returning as of old, jumping into Hook's arms. Hook shut the door, and let Peter's head go.

"Well, are you planning to finally let yourself cry in here or not?" he asked, eager to see the sight.

"I never cry," Peter wiped at his nose furiously, as it began to drip quite obviously with unshed tears. He found it hard not to tremble, standing in the middle of Hook's cabin, under the burning scrutiny of the forget-me-nots. He was almost positive his captor knew the rules-- that Peter Pan could not lose any game-- but something made him uneasy.

Hook sat in his chair and contemplated the boy in silence, distracted all too often by the shadow's meddlesome caresses.

"Why does your shadow seem to favor me so, Pan?" Hook said, rather amiably for one who knew he should at least keelhaul the one he was addressing to be considered a proper pirate.

"I don't know," Pan said. The captain's questions were most irritating, and he sincerely hoped he would be allowed to leave soon.

"I suspect you do, dear Peter." Hook said, motioning him to sit down on the knee unoccupied by the shadow, but the boy shook his head vigorously. The shadow cupped Hook's face in its hands and attempted to turn it away from his rival.

"A boy like you, frolicking about the woods without parents or responsibilities to speak of… It's a pastoral dream, I must admit. But now that your shadow has been detached, tell me: who will care for poor little Peter Pan?"

The shadow's mouth attacked Hook's, making frantic attempts to do something useful there. A rogue tear finally escaped out of Peter's eyes, rolling down his cheek.

"Your shadow knows your friends better than you do, I'm afraid," Hook said. Peter bowed his head and approached Hook cautiously.

"Fine. Sew it on, then." Unapologetic, point blank. Sometimes Hook wished he could be a child again.

He took out the set of curved surgeon's needles he had in his desk, and set to obeying the brat's command. There was much protest from the shadow, of course, but Peter gallantly kept his face almost completely rigid as the needle slid in and out of the soles of his feet.

Hook stood up and allowed Peter to admire his handiwork. The boy almost forgot himself, prancing about gleefully for a bit to make sure his shadow was on good behavior again. His smile faded when Hook took him up into his lap.

"Where be that shadow now?" Hook asked, stroking the boy's hair so gently that it belied the danger of the metal appendage with which he did this.

"It's punished. It won't be stupid and silly again."

Hook lit two cigars for his holder, his eyes positively cat-like as he inhaled. "And cutting off my hand? Wasn't that a stupid and silly thing to do?"

"No," Peter said bluntly, studying the result of his handiwork. It was difficult to argue with one so confident, Hook noted in amusement.

"You know…" he said, stroking the boy's back. "Now that you've torn it off once, it might start detaching itself all the time. Then who would you come to?"

"You, I guess," Peter mumbled and finally wrapped his arms around Hook's neck, though with none of the shadow's enthusiasm.

Hook's palm left Peter's bony back, slowly sliding down and around to his thigh. Peter floated off his lap immediately, his expression so grave that Hook found it hard not to laugh.

"Stop acting like my shadow!" he scolded the pirate. How annoyed he was. It was absolutely precious. "I want to go home."

Hook unlocked the window and let Peter go without ceremony. He was not willing to have the other pirates see the circumstances of their enemy's escape. They would hardly understand that a shadow cannot go on living if it destroys its counterpart.


	8. Eternal Whore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, rated M.  
> Just a melancholy fic about Peter being Hook's prisoner.

Peter awoke earlier than Hook, feeling stifled between the man and the wall. One of his wrists was still chained to the bedpost, wrenching his arm into an uncomfortably twisted position. A forced cough or two roused Hook from his delicious dreams.

As soon as the man focused his foggy eyes on the body he was crushing he moved toward the edge, and stroked the smooth skin of the boy's cheek with his frightening stump. He stared into the indignant, childishly large eyes that would never forgive him all his past transgressions, and retained a residual redness from the tears that had glistened so beautifully in the moonlight as Hook thrust into the boy in the unholy darkness of the cabin.

The ache in Peter's backside resulting from last night's activities was very dull compared to that which had followed the few initial sessions after his capture. Peter's body was showing progressive signs of wear and tear, and Hook was trying to be more considerate—taking care to use plenty of oil and proceeding slowly and gently. He had to be careful not to damage his eternal whore in the fits of passion the boy aroused in him.

It was a shame, really. The youngster was not—would not ever be—developed enough to enjoy what Hook had to offer. In the early days of the capture, Hook relished Pan's pain and humiliation, and the utter one-sidedness of the pleasure. It was fitting revenge for the child's countless offenses against him, not the least of which was the gruesome dismemberment that happened long ago but remained vivid enough in the captain's memory. Hook shuddered as he recalled the fateful duel, assembling the elaborate hook apparatus with a tortured deliberacy. The hook glistened menacingly in front of Peter's face before pulling aside a few strands of hair from the eyes.

Unfortunately, the boy had been reduced to a whimpering, pathetic shadow of himself all too soon, and the captain barely had time to enjoy his triumph over the brash arrogance of the brat. The raping was still satisfying these days but perfunctory, as Peter would cease to struggle almost immediately and simply stare into Hook’s eyes with a dejected hatred. A smile had not played upon those moist lips since the day of his capture.

Hook grinned. "Would you care for a foray off into the sky, lad?" Peter's eyes grew large and betrayed some excitement. "Restrained, of course. Wouldn't want my sparrow to flutter out of my clutches, now would I?"

"On a long chain?" Peter asked hopefully.

"We shall see…" Hook murmured, his mouth coming to rest on that tantalizing neck, and suctioning a monstrous hickey on it. Peter suppressed visible cringing, not wishing to jeopardize Hook's promised gift.

***  
The boy stood, feet still planted firmly on the deck, enjoying a brief stretching of what must have been every tendon and ligament, all with one tremulous arch of the spine and stiffening of the limbs. The pleasure derived from this most simple of actions was so plainly manifested on his face that Hook felt slight jealousy about how hard he had tried to make it good for Pan last night, ultimately failing—- always failing. Peter's body was so delicate, and so gracefully poised at this preparation for his first flight in weeks… Desires were immediately rekindled in the captain to take the boy-- take him up against every barrel and crate on this deck in all imaginable positions. Yet he knew these sentiments had to be restrained for the time. Suddenly he needed to see Pan happy, with a perverse passion.

Hook bound one end of the chain to the mast, the other end being a complicated series of knots looped around Peter’s body elaborately enough to banish any hope of escape. The jangle of the chain was disheartening to the boy's ears, but he blocked the sound out, along with the heavy metal tightness around him, and focused his eyes on the open sky above—- a sky that taunted him with freedom he had once so callously taken for granted.

Hook looked on in half-disbelief as the boy's feet parted with the deck, silently, effortlessly, as if there were nothing extraordinary in this contradiction of every physical law. While Hook gaped enviously, Peter felt apprehensive. Flying felt awkward after such a long hiatus, but he soon regained his intuitive feel and shot up into the sky almost reflexively. The chains cruelly bit into his shoulders when he reached the end of the tether.

"Don’t try anything funny, Pan." Peter heard Hook's voice booming from below. There was Neverland, there was the shore-— so close! The boy felt tears welling up as he deplored the merciless tug of the chain on his body. Yet there was no use in suffering pain, so Peter flew back enough to have the chain on his shoulders relax, and began to practice the mid-air acrobatics that seemed far less natural to him after all this time. Hook had fleeting moments of sudden dread, as the form of the boy in the air instinctively prompted him to grab at the hilt of his sword before he could remind himself that Pan was still captive and at his mercy.

Having regained some composure, Peter began enjoying the exercise immensely. Finally out of the stuffy cabin, out in the air, his body felt small and inconsequential compared to his vast surroundings. He loved the feeling of insignificance now. In Hook's cabin everything would come to center on his internal feelings, on the pain emanating from the muscles straining against Hook's intrusion... the entire world seemed to shrink into a bleak bubble enclosing their two bodies, locked in excruciating union. It was extremely disappointing but not surprising to feel the tug of the chain as Hook reeled the boy back to the deck after a period of time far too short for Peter’s liking.

***  
Hook took off Peter's shirt to examine the large bruises on the shoulder.

"You really shouldn't strain it like this, my little pixie. I like your shoulders white better than blue." Peter did not utter a reply, and felt a slight nausea sweeping over him as Hook continued to remove the rest of the makeshift outfit Smee had sewn together for him.

"Will you let me out on a longer chain tomorrow?" Peter’s voice interrupted Hook's efforts to chain his wrists to the bed.

"We shall see… It really all depends on you, boy." Peter thought he understood the captain's meaning. Hook leaned in to kiss Peter deeply. The boy felt unsure, but pushed his tongue into the kiss, and even put his yet unfettered arm around Hook's neck.

"My, but you are good when you're whoring yourself for favors," Hook smirked after finally pulling away. Peter was well beyond concerns about humility and honor, however. The familiar scent of the oil filled the room, and Peter shut his eyes, cursing the day he was born as he felt a long probing finger begin to prepare him for the impending session of pleasure.


	9. Panectomy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen...? Hook/Pan overtones. M for disturbing themes.  
> Wendy rescues Peter from captivity on Hook's ship. Or at least so she plans.

Wendy rowed the canoe onwards, intent on reaching the ship. Not so many days ago, the pirates had captured her in the forest, held a knife to her throat as Peter hovered uncertainly, dagger shaking in his hand, eyes blazing with indignation because Hook wasn’t playing by the rules. The captain had donned off his hat, greeted the boy graciously, and told him in a saccharin voice that there was a way out of the impasse.

Peter submitted himself to take Wendy’s place, and Hook surprised everyone but Peter when he held to his word and released Wendy. The girl, in all her selfish fear, ran away immediately, but her conscience began to gnaw at her when her beau did not return. She feared the worst, and slowly got up the courage to approach the Indians and ask for their help. The Indians harbored no friendship for Pan, but did give her a rather leaky canoe to travel in. Her plan was not thought out in the least-- in her childish naivety, she hoped to use her charms in convincing Hook to let his nemesis go. Being a romantic, she even imagined martyring herself, trading places with Peter. Perhaps she would even be killed, she pondered, but this thought did not frighten her when it was abstract and not accompanied by a cold blade against her skin and a hairy arm gripping her roughly around the chest.

She reached the Jolly Roger later than she anticipated, her thin arms aching from the effort of paddling. The pirates had seen her from afar and let down a rope ladder, which she climbed, her heart beating less from fear than excitement at imagining herself a true pirate. She jumped onto the deck and self-importantly declared that she would speak with the Captain. Hook came out dressed in his full glory, and Wendy made sure not to show her awe.

“You must be looking for your little playmate? How nice of you to honor him with your visit. He’ll be glad to see you, I’m sure.” Wendy beamed, interpreting Hook’s benevolent airs as evidence of her irresistible powers of attraction. This was confirmed when Hook bellowed for Smee to set the table in quite a different tone.

Wendy sat down in the chair, daintily arranging her hands on her lap, and then wiping her nose on the back of her hand with equal grace. Hook grimaced, and was once again reminded of why he could not stand eating in the company of children.

“I’m glad to see you’ve kept Peter alive. I couldn’t call you a true gentleman if you killed your captives.”

“I assure you nothing is more important to me than your high estimation of my person,” Hook sat down across from her, pouring amber liquid into his goblet. Wendy simpered, and threw back a strand of hair over her shoulder. Sensual as a muskrat, Hook sneered.

“So where is Peter?” Wendy started on an apple, sometimes remembering to close her mouth while chewing.

“He’ll be along shortly. Smee has to prepare his toilette for him. You can’t imagine how much upkeep that boy requires,” Hook said, sipping at his cup with reserve.

Peter finally walked in, escorted by Smee. Wendy gasped. The face was hardly recognizable, obscured by a layer of powder and makeup so thick it seemed to hold his face rigid. He was clothed in a strumpet’s dress along with uneven, obvious padding stuffed into areas where his gaunt body was lacking. He walked awkwardly, limping, as Smee led him across the cabin to the table. Peter sat down by Hook without a word, his eyes fixed on the empty plate before him. Hook looked at him approvingly, running his metal appendage through Peter’s hair, now garishly decorated with silk ribbons.

“What did you do to him?!” Wendy finally managed to stutter out.

“I said he would take your place. Although he’s prettier than you, he wasn’t quite the wench I had been seeking when I caught you.”

Wendy jumped out of her seat, and ran around the table, and took Peter’s hand, but he flinched away.

“Don’t disturb the lad. He's so distraught at times. You know how women’s passions vacillate…”

“You’re an awful, dishonorable man. And we’re leaving,” Wendy announced with confidence. Hook smiled.

“I have grown quite tired of the brat lately. He’s not worth his keep. So I’ll have a last go with him, and then you two can be off on your merry little way.”

Peter shuddered, his mouth twitching, and something redder than the lipstick appearing on it. Wendy screamed.

“What’s wrong with him? Why doesn’t he speak?” she asked.

“He’s been quite intractable most of the time, and I gave him fair warnings about my expectations. Children should be seen not heard. Yesterday was the last straw. Though, I assure you, it pained me deeply to do it, as it quite reduced the repertoire of how I could force him to please me.” Hook grabbed Peter’s chin, manually opening his jaws to reveal a preternaturally hollow and bloody interior. Wendy’s face lost color.

“He’s far more agreeable company when he’s not spouting imbecilic insults in that grating voice of his.” Hook took the opportunity to kiss Peter, who made no protest. The man spat out congealed blood he had inadvertently sucked in directly onto Peter’s cheek, and wiped the fingers whitened by the face powder on the boy’s dress.

“Please be patient, my lady, this will be brief,” Hook said, unbuttoning his trousers. “And you, bend over the table!” Wendy watched in reluctant fascination as Peter moved the plate out of the way and obeyed, Hook throwing the hem of the skirt up and entering him from behind. The boy finally cried out, which earned him a hard slap on the buttocks and even rougher penetration.

***

 

Wendy toiled to distance the canoe from the ship, trying to ignore the jeering and insults hurled at her and her companion from above. Peter sat in the scummy pool of water at the bottom of the boat, his posture grotesque and pained, but the eyes behind the heavy mascara completely listless. As soon as they had gotten out of hearing range, Peter violently tore the ribbons from his hair, and tossed the padding from his chest and hips into the water. Wendy wept, as silent as her companion.

The canoe finally hit the sand, and Wendy climbed out, trying to pull it out completely to no avail. Peter grimaced as he stood up and clambered out into the water, the dress on him filthy and wet, clinging to his thighs in places. Wendy walked slowly across the beach, Peter leaning on her heavily, his feet far apart, all his movements labored. It was no longer fun to play mother.

“It’ll be alright,” Wendy lied to herself, stroking his face. Pained tears streaked down from his eyes, washing runs in the caked white paint.

When they reached the edge of the forest, he pulled away from her, trying to make his way into a thick part of the vegetation.

“Stop! Peter, come back here!” Wendy ran after him, eager to exert her authority over him as his rescuer. Peter turned and pushed her away lightly, shaking his head. Finally, with an enormous effort, he opened his mouth, pronouncing something hideously-- his lips working overtime, but still only just barely intelligible words coming out. He was in tears at the pain of the stump in his mouth trying to push up into his palate as of old. ‘Go away,’ Wendy thought she discerned, but before she could try to persuade him to change his mind, he turned away, and lifted the bent hoop of the dress’s bottom. Urine trickled down his thighs. Wendy only noticed this peculiarity after seeing his frame wracked with sobs at terrible pain.

“Peter! What are you doing?” she asked rather petulantly, dragging him back to the water’s edge. “Wash up! You can’t go around dirty like that.”

She opened the dress’s back and helped him slip out of it. For the first time she saw the frightening cauterized wound on his body and screamed. Peter walked in nude, the salt water burning his groin. He was in the water waist-deep before he saw the face of the mermaid not far from him. He turned to Wendy, giving her one last wistful smile before submerging himself into the depths.

Wendy paced the rocky shore, waiting for Peter’s head to bob back out. She felt a twinge of annoyance that all evidence of her recent noble exertions had gone and drowned.


	10. Dentata

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gen, M for violence.   
> Peter learns a hard lesson about mermaids and repeating things after adults

I stand surveying the lagoon for them. They come up from the depths when they sense someone is about, so I dip my hand and perturb the surface. Sure enough one slithers up to the surface silently, emerging not far from the stones my feet are planted on. I step closer, obscuring the metal of the arm. No need for premature alarm. She approaches, her webbed hand brushing over the tip of my boot. She thinks herself clever and insinuates her arm around one ankle, hoping to deprive me of my balance before dragging me under into her lair-- a bloated, glassy-eyed prize to exhibit to her sisters, no doubt. I’ve seen it before, and quickly wrench her out of the water by her slender arm. I drag her out across the beach, her body thrashing, as gravel tears into the delicate scales of her tail. She claws at the assaulting arm madly until I bring the cold point of my hook to press into her neck, her clammy skin yielding.

I bring her down, the metal almost embedded in her. I had seen to everything, and have no need to unbutton my breeches. I stuff myself into her mouth, and she hisses in resentment but begins to suck. These fused girls always know what to do, and despite all their protests, I suspect they enjoy it, having no recourse to true pleasure. Waves of that same pleasure threaten to overtake me, but I must keep my wits about me, and the point in her neck. Those teeth can crack mussel shells open, and I have no desire to experiment in consensual sex with these creatures who don’t even speak like human beings. I come into her mouth, thrusting deep into her throat inconsiderately before pulling out. I nick her skin lightly, and let the hook come away, watching her hiss and groan out of the corner of my eye as I button my breeches. She begins dragging her body back slowly toward the water’s edge, sleek in the lagoon, but unwieldy on dry land. I head towards the boat, having been most deliciously satisfied on this excursion.

I am within sight of my crewmembers when I hear a wretched scream wrack the jungle. I rush back, almost sure of the voice’s identity. The boy is standing at the water’s edge, eyes bugging out almost as wide as his open mouth, blood spurting in bursts from his crotch. The tail of the mermaid disappears under the surface with unintentional flourish, and the boy falls to his knees clutching frantically for his missing parts. Approach makes the man, I snort to myself, and turn on my heels to leave.


	11. Switch-a-roo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, M for sexual content.   
> Hook's ship is wrecked in a storm and he suffers from amnesia. Peter begins a game with him that gets out of hand.

Peter sat pouting, watching the bay. Oh, how mad they had all made him last night. Wendy and the boys, and even Tink. They had all been unusually annoying and he must have gotten very angry, though he couldn’t really recall what it had all been about. The storm had shaken the island, and now morning light revealed that Hook’s ship was gone. There was wooden debris all over the beach, and he’d seen bloated drowned bodies washing up on shore. Dead bodies… something about that made him shiver, though he was sure he couldn’t care less about the pirates. His only regret was that he hadn’t killed them in battle. He pushed the vague discomfort out of his mind.

Suddenly he espied someone walking up the beach, and when he flew closer he immediately recognized the captain, though he was wet and bedraggled almost beyond recognition.

“Well, hello! Glad to see you made it out alive!” The boy cried out, though he didn’t descend to the ground. Hook looked up, shielding his eyes from the rising sun. Peter could see that there was a large gash on his forehead.

“I’m sorry—I… don’t seem to remember…” Hook mumbled.

“What?”

“I don’t remember… anything. Did I know you before?” The captain’s voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

“You really don’t remember who you are?” The boy looked positively delighted. “I have to admit it’s a rare thing for me to remind someone else of something. But it’ll be my pleasure! I… am Captain Hook, and you’re Peter Pan.” The boy could barely suppress his laughter. He was certainly quick-witted, to think of such a funny deception.

“How can you be a captain? You’re a mere boy!” Something was very exasperating about that lopsided grin, the man thought. Something exasperating in a very familiar way, but it kept eluding his mind like a seed-wisp on the wind.

“Oh, I’m much older than you think.”

“Fine, suit yourself. So you know me?”

“Oh, we knew each other very well. We were the closest of friends. Don’t tell me you don’t remember?”

“I told you, I don’t remember anything before getting washed up on this shore…” 'Peter Pan' sat down, making his hands into a vise on his temples in hopes of alleviating his headache. This boy-captain was doing nothing to alleviate it, certainly.

'Hook' floated down and crouched beside the man. Finally there was someone who would pretend along with him just as earnestly, though the poor victim of the game had no choice in the matter. 'Hook' smiled.

“Can you help me take this whole… apparatus off? The salt on it chafes.”

'Hook' took off 'Peter'’s clothing layer by layer, starting with the greatcoat, until he reached bare skin and began working the leather harness off.

“How did you swim in all these rags anyway? I’d have drowned. And only one hand to paddle with. I’m impressed… _Peter Pan_.” The way the boy relished saying his name made 'Peter' sure it was just some invented mumbo-jumbo that the lad found amusing. It irritated him to no end that he couldn’t do a single thing about it.

“And please remind me-- what exactly happened to my hand?”

'Hook'’s eyes sparkled and you could tell he was very pleased with his own cleverness. “I ate it.”

“What?”

“I ate it. It tasted really good.”

“What in damnation are you talking about?”

“I like the taste of human flesh. Your flesh. So I decided to eat it.”

'Peter' trembled. He was sure these were outlandish lies, but the strange grin on 'Hook'’s face, and the utter confidence of the words disarmed him. He had no reason to believe this eccentric boy, but he had no other alternatives to complete ignorance. 'Peter' looked around, desperate to see someone else who might bring a dose of sanity to this situation.

'Hook' stared at 'Peter', seeing the fear in his eyes, and the hopelessness. He suddenly began to feel very peculiar. Something from the past… the far, far past. _Peter Pan was crying and scared and Captain James Hook did something very strange in that cabin…_ He tried to concentrate his mind but couldn’t for the life of him remember the details. Yet he instinctively felt an urge to do something rather strange now, based on that vague memory.

“I liked your flesh so much that I’ve followed you ever since. Wanting the rest of you…” 

'Peter' sat flabbergasted when 'Hook' rose and pecked him on the cheek, giggling.

“Don’t kiss me. Don’t touch me!” 'Peter' cried, eyes darting about frantically.

“That’s not a kiss, that’s a thimble,” 'Hook' said, rather peeved. “And, anyway, I’m going to thimble you again, whether you like it or not.”

'Peter' dealt 'Hook' such a blow that the latter was thrown out of the man’s reach.

“What the hell was that for?” 'Hook' whined, hovering in the air and rubbing his chest where the wind had been knocked out of him by that huge fist.

“Just don’t touch me. I don’t want anyone to touch me until I remember who the hell I am and what I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Well that’s no fun. Why do you worry so much all the time? You were like that before you forgot everything too—”

Suddenly they both heard a ticking. 'Peter' sat quietly, listening to it rather calmly and making no move to escape. “What is that clock sound?”

'Hook' smiled. “You really are hopeless if you can’t remember that. We better go before it gets here.”

“Why?” 'Peter' asked, walking through the brambles of the overgrown forest path slower than 'Hook' would have liked, prompting the boy to finally tug on the man’s wrist to move him along and stop him from turning around so often. “What is it? What does the clock mean?”

“It means we shouldn’t be hearing it. We don’t have to listen to clocks on this island.”

They reached a small cave and went in. 'Peter' sat down on a rock, though it was very cold and almost moist. 

“You must be hungry,” 'Hook' suggested, obviously enjoying the part of protector.

'Peter' shivered. “Thirsty, mostly.” They had left all the clothing from his upper half on the ground with the harness. He really wanted to go back and get them now that they were in this dampness, but 'Hook' smiled and flew out very quickly when he heard the request. Left alone, Peter found he was reluctant to venture out of sight of the cave for fear of losing it. It was impossible to tell for certain, but there didn’t seem to be others on this island, and he decided he had better stay and wait for his only companion to return.

Hook did not return for a very long time, and Peter finally ventured far out, marking his path with scratches on the treetrunks. He searched for his clothing, but had apparently gone in the wrong direction. Suddenly he came upon bodies in the woods. He thought they were sleeping when he saw them from afar but he soon saw that they were sprawled haphazardly-- covered in blood and reeking in the heat. Many boys and one girl, all run through the chest, the flies circling about them and crawling on their faces— expressions ghastly and eyes still open.

Peter trembled, wondering who could have done something so gruesome, remembering how rushed Hook had been in getting him to come away from the ticking sounds. He fled back so quickly he often nearly lost his own trail. He huddled inside the cave, praying Hook would return and trying to chase away thoughts that perhaps he would not. That perhaps he would also find his only companion lying in the woods with his mouth open and his blood dry and brown on his clothing.

Hook did return, but only when it had already grown very dark. “Wow, I almost clean forgot about you! You’d have been left here all night if I hadn’t suddenly remembered what we were doing. Speaking of which, what was it I was supposed to fetch for you?”

Peter sat shivering in the dark recess of the cave, seeing Hook clearly against the moonlight behind him. “It’s alright. I found water here in the cave. Just don’t leave again.”

“But you must be hungry by now! I already ate. Let me bring you something…”

“No!” Hook felt Peter’s iron grip on his wrist. “Don’t go out again. When you’re not here with me I feel as if I’m losing my mind, because I don’t understand anything that’s happening.”

“Oh. Alright.” Hook felt uneasy at how hard Peter was gripping him to his chest. “Let’s stay together then.”

“Yes,” Peter mumbled and sat back down, placing Hook on his lap. “Let’s stay together.”

They sat in silence, Peter still haunted by the faces of those children. Hook parted Peter’s long dark curls, and licked at the congealed wound on his forehead.

“So tell me, where are the rest of the people on this island?” Peter finally ventured.

“The rest?” Hook thought for a moment, smiling at this new opportunity for more invention. “There is no one else. Just you and I.”

“I see. And what do we do?”

“Do?”

“What do we do all day? Surely we don’t sit in caves and hold each other.”

“We do whatever we wish.” Hook grinned, and Peter was positive he remembered that grin, but really nothing else from his companion. “And what I wish is to give you a thimble.”

Hook pecked him on the cheek again, and then stared intently at the face in front of him. He let a small gasp escape his lips when he could suddenly discern teardrops running down those chiseled cheeks.

“What’s the matter,” Peter said, his voice shaking. “Never seen me cry before?”

“No,” Hook answered truthfully, still fascinated. “I didn’t know grown men could cry too. What’s wrong, anyway?”

“I’m cold, I’m hungry, I’m afraid to be left alone, I still don’t understand what I’m supposed to be doing, there are dead children in the woods, you’re lying to me left and right--”

“What dead children?” Hook stiffened. Why dead bodies all the time. Who cared about dead bodies. “No, no, there are no other children in these woods, I told you. Just you and I.”

“I just don’t feel like I want to live anymore.”

“Why not?” Hook’s voice betrayed great agitation. There it was again—some distant memory of something pleasant. Or was it unpleasant? _Something like coming together so closely it was frightening. As if they’d lose their separate identities._ Hook suddenly felt some panic too, because he had by now forgotten what the great joke had been. He remembered there had been a joke. What was happening to Peter was very funny, for one reason or another, but he couldn’t recall just now what the reasons were. He thimbled Peter again, for lack of anything better to do. This action didn’t seem funny anymore either, though he was sure it had been earlier that morning…

Peter’s lips suddenly pressed themselves rather harshly into Hook’s. Hook could not struggle much, confined in the man’s arms as he was.

“Please don’t leave me,” Peter whispered and began stripping Hook’s meager outfit off of him.

“What…?” Hook whispered, his voice catching in his throat. He felt Peter’s elbow catch his knee and raise it, opening him up down there, pressing his own crotch into Hook’s…

Panic. He remembered it now. _It had been unpleasant. Hook had laughed, Peter had cried._ Or was it the other way around? Hook trembled in fright at both what he could and could not remember.

“Don’t…” Hook was too frightened to say anything else, growing hoarse. Peter’s arms were still clutching him and sprawling his legs out uncomfortably, anger, confusion, and sadness driving him onwards until—

“Belay that!” Hook cried out in desperation.

It was a deep, sonorous voice that cried out, echoing off the cave walls. Peter thrust the boy away, nauseated by the confusion. “What… what are you? Why are you speaking with my voice?”

Hook couldn’t rightly answer the question. He remained on the ground where he’d been thrown, sobbing, naked. It had started out as a fun game, he could have sworn, but it was only frightening and gloomy now, and he could hardly remember why it was a game at all.

Peter was no less terrified. “Where are we? What are we?”

“If… if I can just go and ask—I… there may be someone who will remind me…”

“Who?”

“A… a girl. I remember there is a girl. She can tell us.”

“I saw a girl lying dead in the woods.”

Hook’s lips trembled and he burst into tears. What girl and why was she dead. Why couldn’t he remember anything anymore?

“You’re not going anywhere.” Peter grabbed Hook back, and the large hand alighted on the boy’s neck, throttling him. “And you’re not supposed to have my voice! Don’t do that! Don’t do it ever again-- it’s frightening!” 

Hook made a weak noise when his neck was released and slid down to the stone floor again. His neck throbbed, and it felt hard to breathe, as if there was something catching in the passageway. Peter stared at the dark marks he’d left on the unblemished skin—so stark that they were visible in the dim light of the cave. He finally picked Hook up again to see him coughing blood. Tears of sadness and fright were streaming down both of their cheeks as they sat, stuck torso-to-torso, arms wrapped around each other, neither remembering where they came from or where they were headed.


	12. Nettles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, rated M.  
> Peter is made to wear nettles in place of his usual ivy. Lighthearted sadism.

“Green suits you, Pan. Did you know that?”

_He had been rather happy at first to see what he thought were his clothes returned to him after several excruciatingly cold days spent naked and chained in the hold. At least he thought it had been several. He couldn’t rightly tell in the dank darkness. Neither could he immediately see that the leaves were quite strangely shaped._

_Peter had struggled madly, so that four of the crewmen, all in gloves, hardly managed to slip Peter into his newly commissioned outfit. They exited, leaving the captain and his prize alone. Hook stood impassively, watching Peter go from writhing in pain, to finally deciding better and lying still to minimize the stinging on the rest of his body._

Peter finally braved sacrificing his palms and began ripping the evil foliage from his body. 

"No, no, that won’t do at all.” Hook moved in, crushing Peter into the floor with his own person, causing excruciating agony when he began to rut against his body. Hook had thick, elaborate clothes to protect himself. Peter had the nettles. Still he refused to cry out from old pride-- a vestige of his former existence of only a few days ago, already grown quite useless.

“This is the form I fell into obsession with, not some sorry prisoner. I’m afraid you'll simply have to keep wearing this suit."

_Hook wasn’t afraid. He hadn’t been afraid since he’d captured the boy. Even if the crocodile were to suddenly happen upon him and swallow him whole right at this moment, it could never swallow his victory over Peter. Even if the boy got away afterwards._

_Unless he’d forget eventually…_

Hook made sure Peter wouldn’t forget. He raised Peter and began rubbing into his groin. Peter gave out a whimper then finally started crying for mercy when he felt his most sensitive part subjected to such cruelly acute pain, redoubling his attempt to tear the outfit clean off.

"And when this one wilts we'll fashion you a new one, I imagine." Hook's gloved hand descended to the boy's groin, rubbing before suddenly snatching out a whole clump of nettles, leaving Peter quite naked in that particular spot. And quite hurt. The whole ship must have heard.

“Your screeches are not as melodious as you might think, my little sprite.” He suddenly stuffed the nettles into that small, delicate mouth. Before Peter could react in any way. Before he realized the potential pain. And then two large fingers thrust up his nostril, stuffing the remainder up the last remaining passage of air.

Peter’s eyes watered over before he could do anything else. He felt Hook’s hand against his mouth and nose. Panic rose as the urgency to take a breath mounted.

“Will you remember this, Pan?”

Peter nodded desperately, seeing Hook only as a washed out mirage disappearing behind yet another wall of tears.

“Always?”

Peter nodded, again against Hook’s crushing hand, afraid he was losing consciousness. All pain in his body ceded center-stage as he felt his throat and nasal cavity swelling with inflammation.

Hook’s hand finally left and clumps of nettles were immediately snorted and coughed out. Hook released him, and Peter fell to his knees, drool, snot and tears still pouring out as he struggled to breathe again through his constricted passages. He hardly took notice of Hook massaging the nettles into his backside by this point.

“Get up, brat.” Hook kicked Peter’s backside, and the latter scrambled to his feet. Hook was pleased to see that the inflammation had aroused Peter like no gentle stimulation had done.

“Take off that outfit.” The boy gladly obliged, revealing frightful blisters all over his previously unblemished skin-- pulsating, burning. The boy stood gulping belaboredly, still looking quite the feverish mess. Hook couldn’t resist and ran the roughened leather of his gloves across Peter’s stomach, red spots like a map of where he had so eagerly thrust into the boy’s body moments before. 

He might remember this, Hook thought, though with little conviction, when he heard Peter practically howl in pain at the touch. Perhaps he’d start taking more drastic measures to permanently mark the boy up, but not today. Those affairs had to be conducted carefully and with planning, after all.

As long as Pan lived, he could never be guaranteed that his victory would be remembered. With Pan dead however, he could be sure it wouldn’t be-- which made these things irritatingly difficult.


	13. Peace Pipe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter/Wendy, rated E for... something bad happening.  
> This fic made some P/W shippers mad, so I am warning you that this is darkfic...  
> I am also aware that coca leaves were not part of the standard recipe for peace pipe mixes.

The Indian celebration of Tiger Lily’s return was wilder than anything Wendy had experienced. The primitive instruments made simple but surprisingly affecting music. They had all danced madly that evening, Peter flying up in crazy spirals not unlike the amber sparks that shot out of the bonfire when some of the wood inside it collapsed. Wendy was quite upset at seeing Peter bestow so much attention on Tiger Lily. He inhaled from the long peace pipe many times, with such fervor as if he was drinking it in, heaving out his chest comically, laughing hysterically when the Indian girl bestowed kisses on his body, acrid smoke rolling out of his mouth in short bursts with each frenzied ‘Ha’.

Wendy had been sitting, witnessing all this without a word, hoping Peter would turn to her so she could give him a ponderous sort of glare, but the boy had no mind to. She finally sprang to her feet, surprised at her own indignation, and grabbed Peter by the wrist, hauling him up to his feet and dragging him into the woods under the pretense of going home, though she was not even sure which direction the treehouse was in from that small clearing. 

Peter was laughing, stumbling once in a while over roots and stones as they traveled deeper and deeper into the woods. Finally Wendy stopped, reluctantly asking him if he knew the way home. He grinned and shrugged. There was a strange look in his eye and his cheeks were noticeably flushed even under the red stripes he had taken the liberty to draw on his face.

“I don’t know. But I feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest!” he cried, hugging his own ribcage, laughing. “And it starts going even faster when I look at you. And I keep wanting more—to get even closer to you. As if I want my chest to burst!”

Wendy instinctively felt there was something inappropriate to this and shrank back. But then Peter smiled, and her resolve melted away. What harm could it do? Better with than with the Indian girl. They rolled on the grass together, Wendy sensing they were on the verge of something great but not quite knowing how to get there. She had heard something from the girls in her class, but the thought both frightened and confused her. And yet the very wilderness of Neverland made it seem alright. Nothing that transpired here made much sense, so fear seemed little reason not to tell Peter that it would feel better to do it naked.

Naked they became—two smooth bodies on the mottled forest floor. Wendy looked for stars twinkling between branches and then saw the same untamed light in Peter’s eyes above hers. No, something was amiss with him tonight and it made her uneasy. Perhaps he was growing up at last. But then the blind, furious passion with which he rubbed himself to and fro against her lower body did not remind her in the least of her father or any other adult she knew. They were discovering something new, it seemed.

“Oh!” Peter gasped out and collapsed on Wendy, breathing erratically. “Something in my chest is really going to explode.” He was fever hot and she could feel his heart race as he lay on top of her.

“Peter get off, you’re too heavy.”

He lifted without really moving a muscle, the beginning of levitation, though still in contact with her body. Something hard was nudging itself between her legs and though Wendy knew well enough what it was, she could not bear to look. Peter seemed wholly unembarrassed by the funny things happening with his body and was only bent on insinuating himself between Wendy’s legs. He succeeded with a sudden push and Wendy clapped her legs together, all too late.

Peter moaned. The smell of the smoke was still on his breath as his head fell forward to meet with Wendy’s forehead. She hated the feeling of being pinned, but the frenzied rubbing that resumed courtesy of a light movement of Peter’s hips brought very new, surprisingly pleasant sensations. She grasped at his back, fingers digging in so much that the boy had a brief look of pain on his face. 

Whereas they started dry, almost chafing, the area was now slick with something even stickier than sweat. Their movement even produced funny sounds, but Peter hardly seemed aware of anything by now, biting into his own lip, eyes half-closed, sweat droplets occasionally falling on her. He was moving irregularly, faltering, clumsy in his own frenzy and sometimes slipping out from between her legs entirely. Wendy clenched her thighs not only because it felt better but because of how his eyelashes would flutter down and a moan that seemed to be born deep in his gut would escape his lips. Finally his whole body shuddered, spine arching, crotches digging into each other so closely that Wendy felt it, wet and hot, against her very buttocks.

The boy rolled off and lay grinning and panting. Wendy was still feeling strange deep inside. At once she remembered herself. 

“Dear Peter, I think we shall have to be married since we did that.”

“What’s that?” Peter mumbled, still stupid with bliss.

“It means we will forever be bound to each other and love one anoth—”

“Tiger Lily never said that. And she’s the one who taught it to me.”

Wendy felt the feeling suddenly wither, as if his words had somehow affected her body directly. “You did this with Tiger Lily?”

“Mmhm. She also puts her mouth on it. That’s really good. But you’re not bad either. She has these things…” Peter gestured on his own body, rather unmistakably forming breasts with cupped hands. “I like to put my mouth between them.” 

Wendy's nose was tingling with tears and she became acutely aware that there was still nasty clamminess between her thighs when she sat up. “Putting her mouth there? That’s appalling, Peter. No girl should ever do that.”

“But I do it to her too. It feels so good for the person.”

“Well you’re a nasty boy then, Peter. That’s wrong.”

“Who says.”

“…I… do…” Wendy’s hesitation increased as Peter turned to her, smiling lopsided like something wicked from the woods. She gave out a little scream when he lunged for her, hooking his arms around her legs and throwing his face into the fray. She protested the first several licks, but was soon lost to a sensation many times more powerful than that which she felt before. It felt marvelous, Peter even licking up the residue left on her thighs, and his tongue did such wonders elsewhere that she soon grabbed his hair as if to make sure his head would not leave. He was on his knees, his head low at the ground, sending his ass up into the air. Wendy came to release his hair and ran her hands up his back until she reached his buttocks, her hand pulling them in, launching his whole torso forward into her. Peter moaned luxurious air currents before delving in deeper.

Pleasure crescendoed several times, each a series of upsurges that had her pulsating inside and without. Having pleased her to his satisfaction, Peter rose up grinning, licking his lips obscenely, but Wendy could hardly criticize him when her limbs were still trembling from that onslaught.

“I like you better, you know,” he said, as he huddled next to her, suddenly cold and goosebumped. Wendy had already forgotten about his callous words from before, and felt only gratification at this admission. 

“I like your looks more,” Peter murmured as he lay back on the grass, saying it with an air of grave consideration. “More like me.”

Wendy did not have the urge to dissect his words and be angry so she lay down next to him, in such long silence that she witnessed the dew begin condensing on the eyelashes of his closed eyes. She startled when they suddenly flew open and she immediately noticed something had changed in them.

“I’m so hungry. Let’s go find something to eat.” He got up, hardly waiting for her.

She stood at the base of the tree, looking up at him sitting on the branch, thin legs coming down almost low enough for her to reach. He was gorging on fruit like she’d never seen him do before.

“What’s the matter with you tonight?” she finally ventured to ask.

“What, you mean the coca?” He said it with such a mouthful still in his mouth Wendy wasn’t sure if she’d heard it right.

“Coca?”

“The stuff in the peacepipe. The first round was a calming one, makes you sleepy, and I don’t much go for that, but the second round is the victory mix. That’s where the coca is. I love the feeling of coca. Makes you feel alive.”

“Do you have to smoke that to feel alive?” she asked incredulously, though she had to admit the previous hour or so had been exciting for her too.

“Fighting pirates can do it too, but you can’t do that all the time. Coca is almost better. Makes me feel real funny all over. Makes me like touching.” He jumped down, face frightfully dirty and sticky from the fruit. “Come on, I want something else than fruit. It always feels like I haven’t eaten for days after coca…”

They returned to the site of the celebration, hand in hand, though Wendy tried to wipe off the sticky juice that got transferred to her palm as soon as Peter’s grip opened. The Lost Boys had all left, and the Indians had already retired to their teepees, within a stone’s throw of the site. No food besides small scraps on the ground had been left, but both Peter and Wendy espied something on the ground. Peter approached it, sniffing at the pipe.

“There’s still stuff in here. You want to try it now?”

Wendy shook her head timidly. She rather liked the effect it produced in Peter, but it also frightened her. In any case, it seemed wholly inappropriate for a lady to behave in that wild fashion.

Peter lit a stick in the dying embers of the bonfire and lit it up. He inhaled, his eyes rolling up in pleasure. Wendy laughed. It was funny to watch to him. He took several long drags before putting it on the ground, wisps of smoke traveling up from it.

“Do you want to play a game Tiger Lily taught me?”

Mention of the other girl no longer bothered Wendy now that she had been proclaimed the more desirable, so she gladly agreed and followed Peter’s instructions to tie his wrists and ankles back around one of the totem poles. He was now kneeling, his back pressed against the carved wood, obscenely exposed. Wendy felt a thrill when she thought that someone might come out and see them.

“Now if you put your mouth on it and suck… but only once…”

Wendy hesitated but obeyed. Her inhibitions were slowly fading away and taking it into her mouth didn’t seem quite as dirty as it did before. Peter’s body responded quickly and unmistakably, and what had made her uncomfortable before now seemed to delight.

“Now—do it every once in a while, but never twice in a row. Even if I beg. It’ll be so much better at the end…”

Wendy followed his instructions, leaning back each time. Peter was soon straining against the leather bonds binding him, attempting to thrust, moaning, pleading, begging, soon crying for her to lavish more attention on it, and groaning very loudly when she finally would descend for a quick lick. She watched him—sagging against his bonds, flushed, face suffused with tears, looking like a lunatic because he was giggling between sobs.

“Oh!” he cried. “It hurts already, it hurts!”

Wendy knelt behind him to untie but he turned, surprisingly very stern and annoyed, to tell her that it was not the time for it yet. 

She felt awesome power and fright at the responsibility she carried. She could hear the excited thump of her heart in her very ears, as if the drums, lying abandoned, had revived. How wonderful coca was, to reduce someone cold and aloof like Peter Pan to a mewling, carnal mess—ready to give and take pleasure in a way she never thought imaginable! 

This was why she did not hesitate to bring the pipe to his lips when he asked for a boost. It was why she laughed right along with him when he shouted and chortled at how his chest felt like it would burst with happiness, and only shushed him in fear that they would be discovered at their game. It was why she didn’t know what to do when his head slumped forward and he was suddenly seized with a few shakes before falling very silent and still.

She untied him with some difficulty and his body fell forward onto the forest floor, lifeless where there had just now been the very fountain of youth and vivacity, not just bubbling but veritably on the boil.

Wendy turned him over, but didn’t like the look of the sand that had gotten into his open eyes. His mouth had still been sticky and dirt now clung to his face. Death was very dirty, she noted, growing progressively more afraid. She had heard that people pissed themselves, that their bodies grew stiff and gave off a smell, but why did that pretty face have to grow so blank and… _dirty_? She was crying rather hard by now, and flung the long wooden pipe deep into the woods, refusing to really think about what had just transpired.


	14. Hibernation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Wendy, rated M.  
> Peter leaves the island and it freezes over. The pirates, Wendy, and her brothers must weather the cold somehow.

The Lost Boys made do with their warm furs thrown over them—practically in hibernation, waiting for the island to throb awake when the boy would return. Wendy couldn’t, and was the first to suggest seeking out adults. The Indians were nowhere to be found—perhaps underground or in a far hideaway just for these occasions. She had finally resolved to walk across the ice to the only other grown men on the island, and only her brothers dared follow. The Lost Boys wouldn’t ever have it—switching allegiances for personal comfort was so pragmatic and anathema that they yelled ‘Old Woman!’ after her in the nastiest tones they could muster.

The crossing had been difficult in itself, as the cold wind whipped against their bodies with far greater fury now that they were unprotected by the forest. Sometimes the ice was thinner in places and they could see the soulless, pale eyes of a mermaid staring up at them. Wendy took care to steer clear of those more transparent areas. The entire way she prayed, in her childish way—without structure or any memorized words—that the captain would take them in. When they climbed up the rope ladder to get aboard, Hook was extremely gracious. So much so, that what he did to her later surprised her more than it should have.

Hook was a grownup, and with grownups everything had a price. The first time he did it she left in tears, lip bleeding from her own strain. She had wanted to take her brothers and leave the ship before Hook changed his mind and kept them against their will. But John and Michael had been treated kindly by Smee and refused to walk back to the island across the ice—back into the unending cold.

And then Hook arranged to have her bathe. Glorious, glorious heat! The steam vapors rose thick from the water into the cool air. Wendy sank in as much as the size of the tub would allow, trying to scald every inch of her skin. Her teeth chattered violently when she was out in the cold air of the cabin again, but the captain took her and dried her off, even though she could well have managed herself. She sat by the coal stove in the cabin, wringing her hair to dry it.

Hook had watched her with strange, brooding eyes, and when the coal stove’s heat began waning, Wendy had to look to him for comfort again. They did it on the bed, under the heavy coverlet, and Wendy found that it was not as unpleasant as she remembered. She felt funny after they were done, and much warmer as well, though the air around them still turned the vapor in their breaths visible. It was when Hook’s hand delved between her legs that she felt ecstasy creeping up on her—until it all exploded in one burst, her body sinking into fatigue and growing colder again, making her seek out Hook’s warm torso next to her as they fell into uneasy sleep with the coverlet up to their noses.

“But why is he gone for so long?” Wendy whispered one day when they were in bed together. The lament in her voice did not irritate the captain.

“Time trickles down to a halt wherever he is. So what seems to be one night of fun in London becomes months here.”

“Months!”

“It hardly matters when you don’t age, Ms. Darling. But to us, we are changing as we speak. It’s not uncommon that he’ll cast out one of his boys upon his return, finding him too much like a pirate. I’m decaying, you’re only growing more lovely by the day.”

“I just wish it weren’t so cold when he leaves…” 

It happened in the morning, when the Captain was at his most charming, kissing her chest already promising to burgeon out, bringing her ever closer to release. Wendy’s eyes flew open when she heard a great groan as the ice began melting around the ship with terrifying speed, as if the sea had been set on boil.

“Your little prince has returned, it seems. And you have no more need of my coal stove.” Hook rose out of bed, naked, now eager to savor the cold that would soon be only a distant memory. It was the first time she really saw his entire body without any covering. “The weather will be sweltering, the vegetation will sprout like mad, its sap stinking, and you, my wonderful creature, will frolic around with your little child-hero in pathetic mockery of what you would do were you a bit older and wiser. Go on then. My crew will take you back in a boat.”

Wendy stayed put.

“I think… I should rather stay here.”

Hook returned to the bed, and her thighs confirmed her words. She clasped her hands behind his head, and he kissed her. He always took the time to kiss her even when he was inside. He was a gentleman like that.  
John and Michael protested and cried about leaving their sister as they were sent back to the island. 

Wendy stood grim, the iron hook refreshingly cool against the skin of her arm in the clammy air that had by now taken hold over the entire area.

“Clean out the cannons, bullies. The cursed brat is sure to stop by today.”

Wendy watched the men working, not responding to their wary sideward glances toward her. She loved the man now holding her waist, but, by God, she had a grudge against the boy who had carelessly driven her to such despair and loss of innocence. Yes, she and the Captain would get along marvelously, she realized.


	15. Pacifier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter/Tink, rated PG-13 for suggestive material?  
> I wrote the first draft of this in 1998, so... yeah. I have nothing more to say, really. I was a strange child.

He lay on his bed of leaves, staring up at the gnarled tree branches, probably regretting how wasteful he had been with his most entertaining enemy, and how easily he had let the girl take all his boys away. Tink stared at him from her small boudoir, only her own light illuminating the room and making Peter’s thin limbs cast horrifically distorted shadows across the walls. If only he would regret his true mistake—bringing the wretched Wendy to the island. The Wendy had not known how to deal with him and had only served to confuse him, and now he lay there miserable and alone. Tink herself was not one to comfort him. His tears may have brought her back from the dead, but jealousy overwhelmed gratitude in her tiny body. So she continued to lounge, staring down at him, seeing the reflection of her light start to dance in his open eyes as he was beginning to cry.

“Aren’t you going to make me feel better?” Peter finally said, pouting.

He looked younger suddenly—seeking solace from a creature the size of one of his fingers. She fluttered down and landed on his chin. He lay for a while avoiding meeting her gaze, but finally took her up gently and slid her body feet first into the cavernous heat of his mouth. His obscenely large lips locked closed around her waist, and she shivered in pleasure from the hot moisture to which her legs were now subjected. And then came utter bliss. The mouth started working, wonderful suction pulling her even further in before the tongue launched her out again. Back and forth she went as he sucked rapidly, almost frantically. She was soon lost to sensation, her wings trembling as the massive tongue slid across her legs and bottom. Its surface was rough but not to the point of being unpleasant. The teeth dug in a bit but only served to heighten her excitement because it felt just that much more dangerous to be inside him in this fashion. She turned to look at his face-- nose still sniffling, blowing her hair back and forth chaotically, tears falling now, but all diverted to one side because he was no longer on his back. Such a pretty boy he usually was, but not from this strange angle. It all seemed rather grotesque up close. She parted her legs and shuddered as the tongue inadvertently swept across her inner thighs. Peter was rather oblivious to the change, or its implications, lost in his feelings of loneliness and need.

Sucking. Sucking was something pleasant and comforting out of a past he could not truly recall. In any case, sucking was safe. He felt some of his worries washing away.

He had left his mother quite early, Tink recalled. Though the fairies fed the baby ambrosia there was at least one thing he missed, and his thumb constantly gravitated toward his mouth in feeble attempts to reproduce what had been lost. Tinker Bell remembered the first time she had ventured to replace that thumb. That a mouth so small and soft could produce such powerful suction amazed her, and she spent more and more time with him until the two had grown inseparable. Slowly, Peter had aged, the fairies intent on letting him retain childhood but still be capable of fending for himself in the sometimes perilous environment of Neverland. He grew, and so did his need for companionship. He sought out beings like himself— crass and loud boys—though he was always careful to remain leader supreme. Gone were the infantile days, though Tinker Bell knew Peter still harbored longings that confused him. He had merely diverted them to what he thought was the answer. Wendy. Wendy, who did not want to become what he had sought in her, and yet asked him to give in and change. And Tink had been convinced that he had-- forever ruined and intoxicated with large and vulgar girls.

A vocal sob suddenly wracked his entire mouth. Tinker Bell pressed her open legs up to the tongue one last time, and flew out. 

“Oh Tink,” Peter mumbled, clumsily rubbing in his renewed tears with a fist. “It’s the second time a mother didn’t want me.”

Mother... She looked at the rest of his body. While she was intensely aroused, his own body showed no signs of excitement. Still chaste as a baby. Her baby, and no one else’s. Perhaps Wendy had a smaller impact than Tink had surmised. She flew into Peter’s reach again, signaling with little subtlety that he could comfort himself all he wanted. Wet sucking sounds continued well into the night until the boy succumbed to sleep, only superficially mollified, while Tinker Bell was too lazy to fly up to her boudoir and lay intoxicated near the boy’s face, feeling his breaths sweep past her and half-heartedly reprimanding herself for being lazy enough to risk getting smothered during the night.


	16. A Lesson of Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, rated M for sexual content  
> Hook teaches Peter a lesson. Lighthearted sadism.

His body is already shaking. Is it from fear? I come around to get a view of his face, and to my delight, it’s wild rage that’s making him convulse. His body is vulnerable and naked, bent over my desk, chained down. His proud head is brought low to the desk’s surface, while his feet are planted on the ground, apart, each ankle chained to a leg of the table. And despite the hopelessness of this state of affairs from his point of view, he doesn’t beg for his life, but only plans his revenge against me once he regains his freedom. I can see it in his eyes. If I were a cold, calculating man, I would probably sunder his body apart with my sword. Right here, between two arbitrarily chosen protruding vertebrae. My hook lands in one such furrow and his entire frame shudders.

“Let me go,” he suddenly says through clenched teeth.

“That’s a generous offer, Pan. I think I’ll refuse for now.”

“I thought we had an understanding.” He is almost whining. Utterly disgusting.

“Understanding?” I cannot help but scoff. “The understanding being that you do as you please, and I let you torment me as entertainment? Is _this_ our understanding?” I bring the hook to his face, and nick the side of his cheek. He shudders again, evidently unused to receive hurt without immediate retribution.

“This is my understanding now. My understanding is that I do whatever I want with anything, and that includes your sorry little body.” The chains prevent his ribcage from expanding as much his haughty indignation would call for.

“But I won’t be overly cruel,” I purr, passing back around for a view of his ass. I languidly reach into the pocket of my great coat. “I’m only going to teach you a few lessons.”

Years of having only one hand have made it dexterous, and I push apart his buttocks and simultaneously begin inserting what I have just retrieved up his chute. A neverbird egg-- slightly larger than the chicken eggs from what I can recall with difficulty from the real world. Good omelettes can be made from these eggs, but this particular one has a more sinister fate. The boy gasps, and I can feel his ring clench impossibly tightly. I have not yet inserted it a quarter of an inch. I push on relentlessly, and his prideful silence abruptly degenerates into pained squeals, his bony body writhing within the confines of the chains. He is unbelievably tight, and I am for a moment discouraged in my own abilities to shove the entire egg up. A sudden push, however, and the globe is in, blood beginning to slowly drip out from the opening and unto the impeccably clean floor of my cabin. The boy is screaming his lungs out, attempting to say something, but utterly unintelligible.

“That was for my hand,” I say calmly, searching the room for a cloth of some sort. This assault on my ears can at least be muffled up a bit. After stuffing Pan’s mouth completely full with a bunched up rag Smee uses to wash the floor, his tormented screams are pleasantly softened into stifled moans. His body is already trying to expel the foreign object, the egg sometimes flashing its beige shell from within his body through the hole that he is incapable of completely closing at the moment.

The second egg goes in with somewhat less difficulty, but his muted shrieks are unabated.

“That’s for presuming that a child can ever be better than a man.” It surprises me, given the nature of my occasional dreams, that I am not aroused by the sight of his naked body, ready for the taking, against his impudent, arrogant will. I feel inspired, in fact, to flog him to death, perhaps, or keelhaul him around until he loses his wits underwater. This can only come later, however. The insertion of the final egg is rendered more difficult by the two already inside, but I manage. 

“And that’s for your godless hatred of mothers, you bastard sprite.” I recall my mother from the vague reaches of my memory. How she tried to stay my father’s hand as he pelted me with his belt for… what it was for, on any of the occasions, I cannot, for the life of me, remember. Ever. 

The boy’s body is stiff and slightly trembling. His screaming has ceased, so I graciously take the gag out of his mouth.

“Let me go,” he pants out, his horror-stricken face livid, and barely recognizable. I smile pleasantly, and he thinks he has found a way out.

“You won. I lost. You’re better than me. Now let me go...” And he breaks into tears as a spasm wracks his entire frame.

I shake my head. “Oh, but my dear, sweet lad-- I’m not nearly as shallow as you take me to be, or as you yourself evidently are. My sole purpose in this is, shall we say… improvement of your revolting character. Nothing is beyond correction, I like to believe.”

Pan is straining, and previously unseen veins on his forehead suddenly reveal themselves. At his other end, a most grotesque bowel movement is taking place. I have inserted the trio little end in, rendering it doubly difficult to expel them. 

“I imagine this approximates how your mother felt when she was pushing your ungrateful head out of herself,” I whisper in his ear, stroking the trembling muscles of his buttocks with my cold metal.

Finally, one of them escapes his body, and falls to the floor, splattering its slimy contents across the wood. The bloody doomed embryo bursts open-- stark red against the sunny yolk in the puddle between his two feet. The next egg soon makes its appearance, but stops neither here nor there.

“Please… help me,” Pan gasps between sobs. There is so much sweat that it is dripping off his face onto the polished wood of the desk. At least he is graciously sucking back the filthy blood from a gash he has bitten through on his lip. His needy cry for help finally arouses me. I twist the protruding beige out ever so slightly, and leave the rest of the efforts to him. He pushes it out in a few moments, and I step back to prevent drops of yolk from landing on my clothes. 

I am ready.

He is beginning to push out the last one when I position myself against his thrust out ass. 

“I’ve been quite forgetful today, Peter, so you will have to learn things backwards. While I’m sure your birth was quite fascinating, you should also learn about the original cause of your mother’s agony.” I thrust into him without ceremony, guessing that the previous activity has stretched him more than any of my finger foreplay ever could. I feel the egg inside him, and push it up deeper. He squirms under me, letting out a pained little gasp, but really nothing extraordinary. I am desperate to continue my speech, and have to keep myself still for this.

“Since she was, in all probability, a dirty, loose whore, I expect that she didn't much enjoy the gentleman who bestowed you on her. So don't be alarmed at how coarse this is.” The last words escape as a grunt. I finally pump my hips into his vigorously, and am satisfied much too quickly for my liking. He has been stretched so lax, my come is quicker than I am to leave his limp, fatigued body.

I fight lethargy and take out a belt from my closet-- a monstrous leather item, with too many metal clasps for real usefulness-- and pelt him several times across his ravaged bottom.

“Little boys without mothers are lost,” I say soothingly, just loud enough to be heard above the din of his anguished howling, and watch the blood gather and begin to streak down his thighs, glistening lovely red, from the newly formed welts on his skin.

I will let him go-- he can suffer out the last egg onto the forest floor somewhere. I will let him go, he will heal, and-- most puzzling of all-- he will eventually forget. In years perhaps, but years are at times indistinguishable from days in the nebulous sea of time on this island. He will return to laughing and thinking himself the crowning achievement of the universe. And then I can teach him all over again.


	17. Sweetie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hook/Pan, rated E for sexual content.  
> Not darkfic, just smut with inventive sexual positions.

“I wish you’d picked a better place,” he says, as I lock the manacles. “The Lost Boys come through here often.”

“You should hope they’ll rescue you then. Because this spot is precisely the one I intended for you.” I look up and gaze at the top of the tree, where bees fly in and out of a hole a few yards up above our heads. Peter stands in a surprisingly submissive stance. I’ve pulled his wrists back and chained them to the tree behind him, but he has plenty of motions left to fight back. He doesn’t, and seems to be waiting for me to do something. 

“You want to feel pain, lad?” I take out a jar of honey I’ve brought with me and dab some on his shoulder with my thumb-- smearing it out before licking the remaining residue. “You want to feel fear?”

His eyes travel to the bees in the tree overhead. They are viciously good at detecting sweetness and, sure enough, one is soon on his shoulder. His knees begin to knock into each other. Excellent. I was afraid he might not know or remember what a sting feels like. It crawls back and forth, twitching its antennas and wings. I smack it and he cries out, the dead shell still stuck in the goo and a barely visible stinger protruding from his shoulder.

“Suck out the venom, boy,” I purr, reveling in my own wickedness, wiping the honey from my palm onto his other shoulder. “And I’d clean up the sweet mess if I were you.” He extends his pink tongue hesitantly, sucking out the stinger, and grimaces as he removes the insect’s body with his lips. He licks himself clean on both shoulders, soothing his red swelling with extra attention. He has never tasted honey before, I wager. Neverland’s bees have a cruel sting, and my men suffer greatly sometimes to retrieve enough for little jars. Funny that I should waste so precious a commodity on these idle games, but I am eager to see Pan suffer at any price.

I smear more honey on the tip of his nose, and he looks at me for only a moment before proving that he has caught on to the rules of the game. I smear it on his shin, and he tries several approaches before reaching it, taking advantage of his independence of gravity. I cannot look away from the meeting place of his thighs, sliding past each other with an almost seductive langour. I finally take out my hook and disrobe him, slashing his scanty outfit back to its separate vines before applying the honey to his navel, trailing my finger down, and dabbing more honey on his somewhat aroused member. He looks at me worriedly.

“Go on then-- let’s see how limber you are.” I had imagined that I would need to force him, to bend him to my will, but his feet leave the ground with no further ado. He turns and twists in the air, until he anchors himself against the tree he is bound to, taking advantage of the head-over-heels position to finally reach himself with his tongue. I am shaking with desire at this licentious display, and approach, pulling his bottom down, so that his lips engulf his own head.

“Suck!” I gasp more than command, and he obeys, eyes staring into mine with surprisingly little malice-- as innocent as though he were sucking a teat. He returns to his upright position, and I can wait no longer. Abandoning my previous plans to gag him, smear him, and leave him to the bees, I rub honey into his crevice, and finally reach inside. His breath hitches, and he moves to take more of my finger in.

“I can’t reach there, though,” he says. Can it be mischief in his eyes?

“You don't have to.” I only just have time to undo a few buttons of my breeches before he floats up, wrapping his legs around my hips.

“How… how do you know?” I have no time to worry about how uncertain I sound. The boy’s eyes sparkle—the only parts of him that slightly betray his true age.

“I want it,” he whispers. My hand alights on his hip to anchor and position myself, but we both turn sharply towards a sound from the forest before I can proceed any further. Children laughing. Peter rolls his eyes. Though recently I would have greatly enjoyed tormenting him in front of an audience, I now share his longing for privacy. I unlock the chain from the tree, and carry him, still wrapped around me, away from the cleared forest path. The proximity of his naked body to my member arouses me further, and I can barely concentrate enough to find a sufficiently dense thicket for sound not to carry. For we will make sounds before this is through. I nudge myself into his sticky bottom, still dripping with what I have smeared into it. He shivers and writhes against me, almost animal in his muteness and lust. I begin inching my way in, watching his breathing go ragged, and his eyes shut tight. 

“Unchain my hands please,” he suddenly says. “I want to hold on.” His thighs clench around me firmly enough to remove any doubt from my mind, and I fumble for the keys in my pocket. His arms circle my neck as soon as they are free to do so, and I am almost at a loss, stepping back from the moment in my mind enough to revel in the fact that it is my enemy who is willingly impaling himself on me thus. I want to resume our game and begin thrusting, but suddenly feel his legs loosen around me. I grab his waist, ready to claw at his guts if he attempts escape, but he smiles, pulling up and away only inches before plunging back against my cock, taking it to the hilt. I gasp and feel his fingers twining themselves in my hair before he kisses me deeply. Our lips part only moments later, and he repeats the motion—the entire length of my member treated to the luxuriant tightness of his opening passing over it, as he slips up and down, defying both gravity and any of my preconceptions about him. He emphasizes each return with a marriage of tongues, growing briefer and briefer as his pace quickens. Too brief for my liking, in fact, but soon I’m too consumed with sensations below the waist to care. He is vile-- he is dirty, and sticky, and wanton-- and now, so am I. It’s a match made in hell, consummated by my sudden explosion into him, as he rams his ass into me once more. This time I grab him to me and suction his mouth, still pumping my essence into his body—his opening still contracting around me almost painfully. He shifts his bottom up and down, milking me for all I’m worth, and I’m afraid I’ll fall over in blissful weakness. I have to push his hips away myself in order to leave the scorching heat of his body. His hands remain in my hair, and he insists on continuing to kiss me hungrily, but with my passion now cooling, I have to ask him what in world is going on inside his head.

“You’re a powerful, strong man, and sometimes I’m just tired of always being the leader. With you, I’m never the leader.” I could dispute that claim easily. His erection presses into my stomach, as his legs wrap around me once more. “And I like to feel full—full with you. My life is very empty sometimes, you know. I forget people, and people forget me. You were the first to take away that empty feeling.”

“Don’t pretend you were a virgin,” I say hoarsely, leaning in to suck on his neck.

“I was, to you,” he says, his voice jumping delightfully when I nip him before breaking contact. “I only practiced for you, you know.”

“With whom?” I ask, feeling slightly possessive.

He laughs, his body shaking against mine almost enough to arouse me again, even at my age. “Only with hands and fruits and other things. I wasn’t sure if I was ready, but you caught me, so I had to hope I was prepared.” His eyes travel down to where his crotch meets my body. “… But I’m still very, very dirty.”

My cock is rising again, from all his playful wriggling, and he lowers himself just enough to come in contact with it. “As am I, thanks to you,” I say wickedly.

He pouts his lips and flutters his eyelids in mock innocence. “We can’t stay like this, not with the bees about.”

“No, we can’t,” I say, my voice turning husky.

“I can’t clean myself there,” he says coyly, pecking my cheek. A shudder runs through me when I finally realize what he’s asking.

“I won’t-- not before you clean me,” I retort, feeling his thumbs graze my moustache on either side. I use both arms to caress his bottom, glad to see just a hint of fear in his eyes when the cold metal glides along his skin.

“Why waste time when we can do it together?” He grins, rapidly turning completely upside down. His mouth engulfs me, and his tongue sends me into ecstasy. This was my original plan—to force him to take me in his mouth, but this acrobatic submission of his is ever so much more delicious. It is a few moments before I remember what he expects me to do in return. I stare hesitantly at the bottom just below my face, untanned and porcelain-smooth, and use my hand to separate his ass-cheeks. There is blood, and cum, and of course that sticky honey. His thighs anchor on my shoulders and touch my neck just as I take a deep breath and stick my tongue out. There is nothing pleasant about the taste of the mixture, but he moans and shudders delectably around my cock when I lavish attentions on his tight ring. He is bringing me to new heights of pleasure with agonizing slowness, numbing me to the filthiness of what I’m doing. 

We are soon both as clean as we will ever be, but continue to nurture each other. I finally invade his body, and his thighs clench tightly enough to choke me for a moment, ankles locking behind my head, encouraging my neck to remain bent down. His ministrations to my cock grow even more frantic as I proceed to explore his insides, finding his sweet spot by the moaning sounds he breathes in sensuous currents around my member. I take my unoccupied arm, and slowly caress his erection with the metal. It is only a matter of time before he comes in hot spurts across my chest. The intensity of his sucking soon returns and I am again pumping hot seed into him, while he continues to suck and pleasure me, swallowing everything. My mind is in a blur, and I cannot decide whether it is his mouth or ass that is my obsession now. We collapse unto the forest floor, breathing heavily. He turns back around, his face still red with blood that pooled down in his awkward position. He hovers over me, and even in my stupor, the electricity from our non-contact makes me shiver. I drag him down, pressing him harshly into my body.

“Quit your floating,” I growl good-naturedly, hugging his lanky frame. “Don’t you ever get tired?”

He smiles, rubbing his still-hot face into mine. “I can’t help it, when I have so many happy thoughts.” 

“You’re as red as a beet,” I taunt him, preferring to pretend that his flush is an afterglow.

“I think I just need to practice more often,” he says, rolling off my body into the bed of leaves, his sinewy muscles trembling lightly. We suddenly hear young voices approach. They puzzle at the jar of honey I accidentally left behind. We lie in silence, Peter nuzzling into me again, unbuttoning my shirt, and making love to my torso with his hands and tongue. Soon we hear screaming, but the boy does not stop.

“It sounds like your brats have made acquaintance with the bees,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady as he suckles my nipple.

“Probably,” he says, moving up to my face, and nipping my ear. “But I’m not going back, I’ve decided. I like honey too much.” He winks at me shamelessly. My hand squeezes his bottom, and I begin to mull over what I will tell my men when I return with him in tow.


	18. Abortive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter Pan / Mrs. Darling, rated T.  
> Rarepair, tried to adhere to the bookverse a bit more than usual.

"We can’t both have her, Lady," he said through clenched teeth, perhaps a mite too loud. The woman's eyes fluttered open and fixed themselves on the apparition at the window. She did not gasp, for she had ceased being frightened for herself long ago. A paragon of motherhood, her only cares were for her tender brood. She had merely vague concerns were that this creature had a rather precociously intent look about him. 

"Come in, precious, before you catch cold!" 

The boy flew back from the sill, but settled only a few feet away on the tree, looking far more at home among its bare branches than on the impeccable white plaster of the window. Mrs. Darling was convinced she was dreaming, and therefore showed no surprise at the boy's uncanny ability to levitate. Peter, for his part, could rarely anticipate reactions from others and had given up on the pastime long ago. Hence, neither one of them was the least bit perturbed. 

"You should close the window, if it's so cold, Lady." 

Mrs. Darling couldn't help but smile a little sadly. "I must keep it open for my children-- they might return at any moment. How horrible it would be if they found the window locked!" 

The strange boy pouted in the darkness. Snow managed to gather thick on his long eyelashes between each blink, mesmerizing Mrs. Darling. 

"Mothers stop waiting for their children sooner or later, Lady." 

"Not I," she sighed. "As long as there exists a single hope, I will keep the window open. It's become a habit of sorts... Are you crying, boy?" 

"No, it's only snow." Peter rubbed at his eyes furiously with one hand. "And there isn't any hope. I escort children after they die-- to make the passage more pleasant, you know. I've flown with yours, and I can tell you that they'll never return." 

"It can’t be," Mrs. Darling cried, and Peter was heartened to see her eyes glisten damp. Mothers like her deserved to be in anguish. His own mother had been far too overjoyed with her new baby when he looked in at her through the frosted window. He could not recall her features with any certainty, but his very innards sank when he thought about her overjoyed expression. 

"It’s not true. They're alive, as far as I'm concerned, and I'll never, ever shut this window." 

Peter groaned in exasperation at her unwavering devotion to her ungrateful children. 

"Why do you love them so?" 

"Because... because they're _mine_ , I suppose." Mrs. Darling answered with a bit of hesitation. 

"And I'm not, am I, Lady?" Peter furrowed his brows and made to leave, resigned to the singularity of his mother's cruelty. 

"You needn't call me 'Lady,' my darling. I'll be your mother, if you'll only stop wandering and settle on the sill." 

Peter looked back, trembling lightly with apprehension and excitement. "I don't need a mother, and never have," he announced gravely, even as he alighted noiselessly onto the floor of the nursery. She took him up in her arms and enveloped him in the luxurious warmth of her body-- something Peter hadn't even known he'd craved until now. His spindly, chill limbs clung back with appreciative possessiveness. 

"My, but you're an untidy rascal!" Mrs. Darling said with only half-serious disapproval as she picked bits of desiccated leaves out of his tumultuous mass of hair. 

She moved across the room with celestial grace, despite the light burden in her knowing arms, and locked the door against any possible intruders on this unhallowed tryst. She hesitated only briefly before moving back to the window. Peter's heart leapt up in fear when he heard the shutting and click of the lock. "But… but you said you'd wait for them!" 

Mrs. Darling smiled, her melancholy evident in her eyes. "They never will return, you said yourself," she murmured wistfully. "This thought grieves me terribly, but I cannot mourn when I look upon your features." 

"Yes, forget them. They don't deserve you," Peter whispered excitedly, feeling very intimate and selfish. "I am like all your children put together, am I not?" 

Mrs. Darling had to smile at the hope in his voice. "You are like all the children in the world, put together," she whispered in his ear and felt his head lay itself down onto her shoulder, resigned to relaxation despite the somewhat worrying confinement in her arms. Mrs. Darling's smile had the slightest hint of mischief about it as she carried the boy into the adjoining little room with the children's bath. Peter startled when the faucet she turned on spurted hot water with a terrible gushing sound, but immediately pretended it had not fazed him when he heard a light, gentle laugh escape her mouth at his reaction. This was the first time he truly studied her mouth, and he noticed something mysterious and ethereal in the corner of it. He had no name for it, but this in no way deterred him from immediately deciding that it must be his. He rubbed his grubby finger across that corner, but it would not wipe off, only leaving a smudge that obscured what had been so conspicuous before. The corner curled up in a smile, and Mrs. Darling gently wiped the grime away with water from the nearly full tub. 

"You like it?" Her calm voice was hardly audible over the din of the water. Peter nodded unabashedly. 

"Then you shall have it-- but not until a little later. You must wash up first." 

Peter stared into the water with distrust, but did not actively protest when Mrs. Darling's clever fingers found a way to extract him out of his verdant clothing. She gasped lightly when she saw how unnaturally meager his figure appeared without the covering. Yet, like a good mother, she assuaged the questioning look in his eyes by ignoring how frighteningly his ribs and hips protruded from his skin, and immersing him in the water, lavishing tender kisses on his head. 

Peter was a perceptive boy, however. "Why were you frightened?" His young voice asked rather pointedly. 

"It's nothing, darling." She lathered up the sponge. "I'll just have to give you something or other to eat later." 

Peter sat in the bathtub, his body tensing up, oblivious to the attentions she was giving the surface of each body part. "I'm not dead, am I?" the boy suddenly asked with urgency. 

"No, precious," Mrs. Darling said and turned away, not wishing to have him witness the tear rolling out of her eye. She, of course, knew this was all a dream. But that the dream should so doubt and care about its own reality was rather tragic. The skeleton leaves on the floor rustled a sigh from a light draft. They were dry and dead, but still green, oozing sickly green sap from their stems even now, as if their wounds were eternally raw. 

"Children who fall out of their prams don't die, you know," Peter stood up out of the bath to try and face her. "They come to the Neverland with me. And I was only joking about your children being dead. They live with me there too." 

Mrs. Darling nodded and vainly attempted to smile, tears inadvertently rolling down her cheeks. Peter did not take joy in these tears, however. 

"They’re not dead, Lady! Stop your stupid crying! Didn't you hear me?" 

"I heard you just fine, love. Sit back into the water," Mrs. Darling murmured, suddenly sure that her children would never return now that this apparition came to her in the dream. The silence between them was rather tense, but Mr. Darling just happened to knock a petulant little series of raps on the door, forestalling Peter's looming departure. 

"Dearest-- are you alright? It's so very late…" 

"George, I shan't come out tonight. I'm afraid I'm feeling a bit indisposed." 

"Ah…" The tension in the man's voice was too evident for his liking. "I've told you more than on one occasion that the open window will be the death of you." Peter was feeling mounting irritation at the man he had never laid eyes on. Mrs. Darling felt pity for her husband just then, stuck outside, still mourning his children stoically, internally-- while she had this wonderful creature to come console her and to let her vent her motherly feelings on him. 

"I'm sorry, dear, but I don't want to have you sick. I'll take my rest in the nursery. It wouldn't do if you were to miss your office work because of me, would it?" 

"No, no it wouldn't." A short silence ensued broken only by Mrs. Darling restarting her washing efforts. "Are you in the bath, dear?" 

"Yes," she said, unhesitant. Peter giggled, having always found overt and, moreover, _successful_ lies very comical. He clapped his hand to his mouth almost immediately, but the escaped sound was enough to torment Mr. Darling for many a night afterwards with unanswerable questions. 

"You don't mind, dear, I hope?" Mrs. Darling's voice did not waver in its sweet innocence. Of course, he didn't mind. Mr. Darling knew not how to manage others' affairs and rarely attempted to meddle in his wife's. He went off to bed feeling confused and lonesome. 

Mrs. Darling had picked out most of the twigs and leaves from Peter's hair one by one, casting them away until she had produced what looked like a tiny nest on the floor. She dried every nook and cranny of his body, the towel tickling him as he thought only Tinker Bell could. She swaddled him in the towel, only his face visible, and rocked him up and down, marveling at his exquisite features, revealed from under a layer of grime. 

"You can take my kiss now," Mrs. Darling commanded more than offered, and leaned in slowly. Her lips met Peter's, gently at first, and his eyes grew large with wonder at the taste of lipstick and the feeling something so moist and mobile moving further and further into mouth. She exited him, raising her head up, leaving his mouth and eyes still gaping open in surprise. 

"I'm sorry… I shouldn't have done it so deeply. Forget about this-- it was improper of me." 

Peter's mouth finally closed, and he shook his head. "But I don't want to forget… ever. You kiss is better than Wendy's." 

"Wendy's?" Mrs. Darling was surprised. She had begun to forget her children completely in the boy's presence. 

"I wanted Wendy to be my mother, but she always wanted something else. And you're better than her," he said, his voice tired, and his eyes lingering on the blinks lazily. She lay down with him on Wendy's bed, while his hands stroked her face and collarbones rather impertinently. 

"We won't invite Father to stay here, will we?" The hope in his voice was more obnoxious than endearing, but Mrs. Darling was a very patient woman. 

"No, darling, you are safe from him." 

"Just you and I," Peter whispered contentedly, twisting himself out of the towel and snuggling his brittle, lanky body into the ample softness of hers with no more buffer between them than her silk nightgown. Before long, the boy's warm breaths on her bosom became soft and regular. Mrs. Darling succumbed to her own fatigue, hardly acknowledging how ridiculous it was to fall sleep within a dream. 

In the morning, she found no signs of the household intruder, except for a towel next to her in Wendy's bed, and a small pile of exotic forest dirt in the bathroom. She went out early enough to see her husband off to work, dutifully informing him that she was feeling better this morning. Her mind locked the incident away into her memory without trying to classify it into reality or fantasy-- something Mr. Darling would never have allowed himself. She was hard pressed to remember whether the sprite had even revealed its name.


	19. A Fleeting Moment (JM Barrie RPS)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> JM Barrie / Michael Llewellyn-Davies, rated T.  
> Location: 100 Bayswater Road. Time: Christmas vacation, 1914

Michael fell onto his bed, still fuming. The old man had always meddled in his affairs, so he was hard put to know why he cared now. Perhaps because there was now no question that they had grown further apart, and it was becoming very obvious that old J.M.B. was resenting it. 

He’d done more than anyone could imagine for their family. Hell, he’d been the prism through which Michael watched the world go by—making rainy days into first-class indoor expeditions into such remote locales as the attic, making Kensington Gardens into the playground of fairies and pirates instead of boring nannies and their wards. 

Yet it was all stale now, Michael admitted to himself. He remembered how distressed he had been at the prospect of growing older into a man like his father, who found it more interesting to drink coffee and read the newspaper than crawl under the table and hide from sinister siblings. Michael couldn’t help but realize that he was slowly but ever so surely transforming into a man with whom J.M.B. would probably not associate. And now he had found out about his admirer. It’s not that Michael had wanted an admirer, and at first the very idea disgusted him, but then… then things changed so much. J.M.B. would never understand, and Michael didn’t particularly want him to understand.

He decided to take a bath and relax away the travel fatigue, looking in vain for a towel. Everything had been rearranged since he had last been in the house. As he continued rummaging through the closet, his eyes suddenly caught a box on the floor. He dragged it out, opening it to reveal boys’ outfits. His own outfits, he recognized, which had come from Peter and had been passed on to Nico… and then… Michael’s heart began to race as he remembered his mother, still alive, tell J.M.B. to please donate the clothes Nico had outgrown to orphanages, as she was sure that she wouldn’t venture to have any more fiendish little children. She had laughed, and even a mean joke like that sounded sentimental and inoffensive from her mouth. 

He pulled out a mock sailor outfit. J.M.B. had always adored him in it, he remembered, measuring up the tiny clothes to himself. He must have been seven at most when he wore them. Michael looked across at the mirror and began to strip. It was agonizingly hard to pull the ridiculously small clothes on—they did fit, as he had actually grown a bit thinner after his growth spurt which rendered him already an entire head taller than his guardian. The shirt stretched tight across his chest, not even covering his ribs. There was no hope of buttoning the shorts. The threads were straining as it was around his round bottom. When he looked in the mirror again, he couldn’t refrain from laughing. His body seemed incongruously long and lanky, his outfit leaving him obscenely bare in all but the most indecent places. He could hardly walk downstairs, feeling the parts of his body that were constricted by the fabric beginning to throb.

Barrie was in the kitchen, preparing something on the stove, no doubt remember the bewildering appetite in boys of Michael’s age that heralded that irreversible transition from child to man. Michael remained at the door of the kitchen, leaning on the door frame, hand on hip, acting as coy as possible.

“You old queer!” he finally said, delighting in Barrie’s expression as he turned to face the provocatively clad boy. “Donated these to the orphanage, had you?”

Barrie’s expression was so strange the Michael began to regret how suddenly he had sprung up on the old man. “I’m only joking, of course, J.M.B.,” he added hastily when he noticed tears begin to coalesce in Barrie’s eyes.

“No, no, you’re just so… beautiful there, like that. A vision to rival any painting those Romanticists churn out as mythological ideals…”

Michael smiled and was about to dispel the illusion by sitting down at the small table, but Barrie immediately instructed him to remain there, rushing off to bring his photography paraphernalia. Michael stood still as Barrie rushed about him, setting up the lighting to properly capture this supposedly fleeting moment.

Michael posed as he was instructed, worried that the white shorts might rip clear through on the back. As it was, they rode up so that they were exposing his legs entirely. Barrie took him in different poses, allowing himself the pleasure of unashamedly studying the youth’s body when it was done through a camera lens in the name of art. Every bone, every tightening ligament, every flexing muscle, the exposed navel (the divine navel!), all begging to be caressed by the camera’s eye.

“Are you going to caption these?” Michael asked, as he turned his head to look back at the man under the hood of the camera.

“But of course. I always caption.”

“What will you call these?”

Standing in profile, facing and pressing his torso into the door frame, pulling his knee up and making as if to kiss it. Very nice black background for contrast with porcelain skin and starched white outfit. NARCISSUS DISCOVERS HIS REFLECTION.

Pressing his crotch into the floor, legs spread slightly and to the back, body leaning forward, using arms for support, mouth and eyes half open. Looking like a girl with none of the vulgar pulchritude. MERMAID BEACHED ON THE ROCKS.

They took as many pictures as was possible, and Barrie immediately rushed off to his water closet to develop them. In a couple of hours Michael was flipping through the sepia prints, ignoring admonitions from Barrie to avoid spilling coffee on the priceless pictures.

“I look like a three-pence whore,” Michael laughed.

Barrie looked perturbed. “Whatever makes you see that?”

“Well, I’m practically posing for a manual on obscenities. All I need is some stage paint and these could be from the crassest vaudeville committed in front of an audience.”

“I just think you look lovely,” Barrie replied, stroking the boy’s shoulder. 

“It’s only that… I’m doing this silliness, while George is away, in the trenches, saving our lives.”

“I know,” Barrie said quietly. “And my heart aches for him every day, but it’s too much to dwell on. For you or me.”

Michael swallowed hard. “Well, to die is an awfully big adventure, as you said.”

“Only to those who are still living,” Barrie replied tersely. “But, in any case, nothing should happen to our George. He’s a fine young man, and England doesn’t waste her own.”

Michael nodded silently, feeling a familiar lump in his throat. He stood up to go upstairs and change out of his clothes, but Barrie gripped him by the arm, and suddenly, rather impudently, planted his lips on Michael’s. It was a very awkward kiss—the aggressor having to stand up on tiptoe to reach the bewildered boy’s mouth. 

“Don’t ever leave me to go off somewhere,” Barrie said with uncharacteristic earnestness when they came apart.

Michael said nothing but leaned down to kiss again, and more properly this time, though each remained too shy to invade the other’s mouth, though somewhat expecting it from the other. They suddenly heard the door creak open.

“Nico’s back from his friend’s,” Barrie whispered, caressing Michael’s cheek. “You better run upstairs and change.”

Michael nodded, smiling and blushing, and sprinted up to the bathroom, fully confident that J.M.B. would put the strange photographs out of Nico’s view. How quickly Eton and all its social entanglements grew irrelevant when he returned home!


End file.
